Classic Poem

Thou sent to mee a heart was Crown'd
I thought it had been thine,
But when I saw it had a wound
I knew the heart was Mine.
A bounty of a strange conceate
To give myne owne to mee,
And give it in a worse Estate
Than it was giv'n to thee.
The heart I sent it had noe paine,
It was intire and sound,
But thou did send it back againe
Sick of a deadly wound.
Oh Heavens how would you use a heart
That should Rebellious be,
When you undoe it with a dart
That yieldes itselfe to thee?
Yet wish I it had noe more paine
Than from the wound proceedes;
More for the sending back againe
Than for the wound it bleedes.
Envy will say some misdesert
Hath caus'd thee turn't away,
And where it was thy fault, thy Art
The blame on it will lay.
Yet thou dost know that noe defect
In it thou couldst reprove,
Thou only fear'd it should infect
Thy loveless heart with love,
A crime which if it could commit
Would so indear 't to thee
That thou would rather harbour it
Than send it back to mee.
Yet keepe it still, or if poore heart
It hath been thine too long,
Send mee it back as free from smart
As it was free from wrong.