Classic Poem

How well poore hart thou wittnes canst I love,
How oft my griefe hath made thee shed for teares
Drops of thy deerest blood, and how oft feares
Borne testimony of the paines I prove,

What torments hast thou sufferd while above
Joy, thou tortur'd wert with racks which longing beares
Pinch'd with desires which yett butt wishing reares
Firme in my faith, in constancy to move,

Yett is itt sayd that sure love can nott bee
Wher soe small showe of passion is descrid,
When thy chiefe paine is that I must itt hide
From all save only one who showld itt see.

For know more passion in my hart doth move
Then in a million that make show of love.