Classic Poem

O then love I, and draw this weary breath
For her, the cruell Fayre, within whose brow
I written finde the sentence of my death,
In unkinde letters, wrought she cares not how
O thou that rul'st the confines of the night,
Laughter-loving goddesse, worldly plesures' Queen,
Intenerat that hart that sets so light
The truest love that ever yet was seene;
And cause her leave to tryumph in this wise
Uppon the prostrate spoyle of that poore hart
That serves a Trophey to her conquering eyes,
And must theyr glory to the world impart.
Once let her know, sh'hath done enough to prove me,
And let her pitty if she cannot love me