Classic Poem

Oft do I plain, and she my plaints doth read,
Which in black colours do paint forth my woe,
So that of force she must my sorrow know;
And know, for her disdain my heart doth bleed:
And knowledge must of force some pity breed,
Which makes me hope she will some favour show,
And from her sugared lips cause comfort flow
Into mine ears, my heart with joy to feed:
Yet though she reads, and reading knows my grief,
And knowledge moves her pity my distress;
Yet do her lips, sweet lips, yield no relief.
Much do I muse, but find no cause in this,
That in her lips, her heavenly lips that bliss them,
Her words, loath thence to part, stay there to kiss them.