Classic Poem

I bend my wits, and beat my weary brain,
To keep my inward grief from outward show.
Alas, I cannot; now 'tis vain, I know,
To hide a fire whose flame appeareth plain.
I force my will, my senses I constrain,
T' imprison in my heart my secret woe:
But musing thoughts, deep sighs, or tears that flow,
Discover what my heart hides all in vain.
Yet blame not, dear, this undissembled passion;
For well may love, within small limits bounded,
Be wisely mask'd in a disguised fashion:
But he whose heart, like mine, is throughly wounded,
Can never feign, no, though he were assured
That feigning might have greater grace procured.