Classic Poem

Fayre is my love, and cruell as sh'is fayre;
Her brow shades frowns, althogh her eyes are sunny;
Her smyles are lightning, though her pride, dispaire;
And her disdaines are gall, her favours hunny.
A modest mayde, deckt with a blush of honour,
Whose feete do tread greene pathes of youth and love;
The wonder of all eyes that looke upon her:
Sacred on earth, design'd a Saint above.
Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes,
Live reconciled friends within her brow:
And had she pitty to conjoyne with those,
Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?
O had she not been fayre, and thus unkind,
My Muse had slept, and none had knowne my minde.