Classic Poem

Why were myne eyes so forewarde to my harme
who for the pleasure to beholde your face
Contented were that you by lookes shoud charme
my lybertye that yeldeth thraledome place
By yow myne eyes and not by his owne force
my mortall foe possessed hath my harte
Where he doth burne and sacke without remorce
and now I feare will never thence departe
Butt I that did so well and longe defende
my selfe from hym and from his greatest might
Now rue to thinke how I my lyfe must spende
subjecte to paynes, to fury and dispighte
Butt yet (oh love) since now the place thow haste
and meaniste to make thy mansion of my harte
Surcease with flames, the same to spile or waste
To burne thy howse it were a chyldish parte.