Classic Poem

SONG.

Now (as I live) I love thee much,
And fain would love thee more,
Did I but know thy temper such,
As could give o're.

But to ingage thy Virgin-heart,
Then leave it in distresse,
Were to betray thy brave desert,
And make it lesse.

Were all the Eastern Treasures mine,
I'de pour them at thy feet:
But to invite a Prince to dine
With air, 's not meet.

No, let me rather pine alone,
Then if my fate prove coy,
I can dispence with grief my own,
While thou hast joy.

But if through my too niggard Fate
Thou shouldst unhappy prove,
I should grow mad and desperate
Through grief and love.

Since then though more I cannot love
Without thy injury;
As Saints that to an Altar move,
My thoughts shall be.

And think not that the flame is lesse,
For 'tis upon this score,
Were't not a love beyond excesse,
It might be more.