Classic Poem

Unto the caitiff wretch whom long affliction holdeth,
and now fully believes help to be quite perished,
Grant yet, grant yet a look, to the last monument of his anguish,
O you (alas so I find) cause of his only ruin.
Dread not a whit (O goodly cruel) that pity may enter
into thy heart by the sight of this epistle I send;
And so refuse to behold of these strange wounds the recital,
lest it might thee allure home to thyself to return
(Unto thyself I do mean, those graces dwell so within thee,
gratefulness, sweetness, holy love, hearty regard).
Such thing cannot I seek (despair hath giv'n me my answer,
despair most tragical clause to a deadly request);
Such thing cannot he hope that knows thy determinate hardness;
hard like a rich marble; hard, but a fair diamond.
Can those eyes, that of eyes drowned in most hearty flowing tears
(tears, and tears of a man) had no return to remorse;
Can those eyes now yield to the kind conceit of a sorrow,
which ink only relates, but ne laments ne replies?
Ah, that, that do I not conceive, though that to me lief were
more than Nestor 's years, more than a king's diadem.
Ah, that, that do I not conceive; to the heaven when a mouse climbs
then may I hope t'achieve grace of a heavenly tiger.
But, but alas, like a man condemned doth crave to be heard speak,
not that he hopes for amends of the disaster he feels,
But finding th'approach of death with an inly relenting,
gives an adieu to the world, as to his only delight;
Right so my boiling heart, inflamed with fire of a fair eye,
bubbling out doth breathe signs of his hugy dolours,
Now that he finds to what end his life and love be reserved,
and that he thence must part where to live only I lived.
O fair, O fairest, are such the triumphs to thy fairness?
Can death beauty become? Must I be such a monument?
Must I be only the mark shall prove that virtue is angry?
Shall prove that fierceness can with a white dove abide?
Shall to the world appear that faith and love be rewarded
with mortal disdain, bent to unendly revenge?
Unto revenge? O sweet, on a wretch wilt thou be revenged?
Shall such high planets tend to the loss of a worm?
And to revenge who do bend would in that kind be revenged
as th'offence was done, and go beyond if he can.
All my offence was love; with love then must I be chastened,
and with more, by the laws that to revenge do belong.
If that love be a fault, more fault in you to be lovely;
love never had me oppressed, but that I saw to be loved.
You be the cause that I love; what reason blameth a shadow
that with a body't goes, since by a body it is?
If the love hate you did, you should your beauty have hidden;
you should those fair eyes have with a veil covered.
But fool, fool that I am, those eyes would shine from a dark cave;
what veils then do prevail, but to a more miracle?
Or those golden locks (those locks which lock me to bondage)
torn you should disperse unto the blasts of a wind.
But fool, fool that I am, though I had but a hair of her head found,
e'en as I am, so I should unto that hair be a thrall.
Or with a fair hand's nails (O hand which nails me to this death)
you should have your face (since love is ill) blemished.
O wretch, what do I say? Should that fair face be defaced?
Should my too much sight cause so true a sun to be lost?
First let Cimmerian darkness be my onl'habitation,
first be mine eyes pulled out, first be my brain perished,
Ere that I should consent to do such excessive a damage
unto the earth by the hurt of this her heavenly jewel.
O not but such love you say you could have afforded,
as might learn temp'rance void of a rage's events.
O sweet simplicity, from whence should love be so learned?
Unto Cupid , that boy, shall a pedant be found?
Well, but faulty I was; reason to my passion yielded,
passion unto my rage, rage to a hasty revenge.
But what's this for a fault, for which such faith be abolished,
such faith, so stainless, inviolate, violent?
Shall I not? O may I not thus yet refresh the remembrance
what sweet joys I had once, and what a place I did hold?
Shall I not once object that you, you granted a favour
unto the man whom now such miseries you award?
Bend your thoughts to the dear sweet words which then to me giv'n were;
think what a world is now, think who hath altered her heart.
What? Was I then worthy such good, now worthy so much ill?
Now fled, then cherished? Then so nigh, now so remote?
Did not a rosed breath, from lips more rosy proceeding,
say that I well should find in what a care I was had?
With much more: now what do I find but care to abhor me,
care that I sink in grief, care that I live banished?
And banished do I live, nor now will seek a recov'ry,
since so she will, whose will is to me more than a law.
If then a man in most ill case may give you a farewell:
farewell, long farewell, all my woe, all my delight.