Classic Poem

Being my self captived here in care,
My heart, whom none with servile bands can tie
But the fair tresses of your golden hair,
Breaking his prison, forth to you doth fly.
Like as a bird that in one's hand doth spy
Desired food, to it doth make its flight,
Even so my heart, that wont on your fair eye
To feed his fill, flies back unto your sight.
Do you him take, and in your bosom bright
Gently encage, that he may be your thrall:
Perhaps he there may learn, with rare delight,
To sing your name and praises over all:
That it hereafter may you not repent
Him lodging in your bosom to have lent.