Classic Poem

If I were dead, and, in my place,
—Some fresher youth designed
To warm thee, with new fires; and grace
—Those arms I left behind:

Were he as faithful as the Sun,
—That's wedded to the Sphere;
His blood as chaste and temperate run,
—As April's mildest tear;

Or were he rich; and, with his heap
—And spacious share of earth,
Could make divine affection cheap,
—And court his golden birth;

For all these arts, I'd not believe
—(No! though he should be thine!),
The mighty Amorist could give
—So rich a heart as mine!

Fortune and beauty thou might'st find,
—And greater men than I;
But my true resolvèd mind
—They never shall come nigh.

For I not for an hour did love,
—Or for a day desire,
But with my soul had from above
—This endless holy fire.