Classic Poem

Like to the Indians, scorched with the sunne,
The sunn which they doe as theyr God adore
Soe ame I us'd by love, for ever more
I worship him, less favors have I wunn,

Better are they who thus to blacknes runn,
And soe can only whitenes want deplore
Then I who pale, and white ame with griefs store,
Nor can have hope, butt to see hopes undunn;

Beesids theyr sacrifies receavd's in sight
Of theyr chose sainte: Mine hid as worthles rite;
Grant mee to see wher I my offrings give,

Then lett mee weare the marke of Cupids might
In hart as they in skin of Phoebus light
Nott ceasing offrings to love while I Live.