Classic Poem

Thou poore hart, sacrifiz'd unto the fairest,
Hast sent the incens of thy sighes to heaven;
And still against her frownes fresh vowes repayrest,
And made thy passions with her beauty even
And you, mine eyes, the agents of my hart,
Told the dumbe message of my hidden griefe;
And oft with carefull turnes, with silent Arte,
Did treate the cruell Fayre to yeeld reliefe
And you, my verse, the Advocates of love,
Have followed hard the processe of my case,
And urg'd that tytle which doth plainly prove
My faith should win, if justice might have place.
Yet though I see that nought we doe can move her,
Tis not disdaine must make me cease to love her.