Classic Poem

L OVE'S infidel
Whom I adore,
You know too well
That I love you more
By a hundred score
Than mine eyes or heart!
So you'd die before
You'd be called “sweet-heart!”

But if I could seem
To set no store
By your esteem,
Then you'd love me more
By a hundred score
Than your eyes or heart,
And almost implore
To be called “sweet-heart!”

“'Tis the way of love
That who loves the best
The least can he move
His Lady's breast.”…
Ah, would I could test
The proverb's truth
And hate—in jest—
Till you loved in sooth!