Classic Poem

Thou poore heart sacrifiz'd vnto the fairest,
Hast sent the incense of thy sighs to heauen:
And still against her frownes fresh vowes repairest,
And made thy passions with her beautie euen.
And you mine eyes, the agents of my hart
Tolde the dumbe message of my hidden griefe:
And oft with carefull turnes, with silent Art,
Did treate the cruell faire to yeeld reliefe.
And you my Verse, the Aduocates of Loue,
Haue followed hard the Processe of my case:
And vrg'd that title which doth plainely proue,
My faith should win, if Iustice might haue place.
Yet though I see, that nought we doe, can moue,
Tis not disdaine must make me leaue to loue.