Classic Poem

Though thou, my ring, be small,
And slender be thy price,
Yet hast thou in thy compass couched
A lover's true device;
And though no ruby red,
Ne turquoise, trim thy top,
Nor other jewel that commends
The golden Vulcan's shop;
Yet may'st thou boldly vaunt,
And make a true report
For me that am thy master yet,
In such a semblant sort,
That aye " my heart is hers;"
Of thee I ask no more;
My pen and I will show the rest
Which yet I keep in store.
Be mindful of thy charge,
And of thy master's case:
Forget not that " my heart is hers"
Though I be not in place.
When thou hast told thy tale
Which is but short and sweet,
Then let my Love conject the rest
Till she and I do meet.
For as " my heart is hers,"
So shall it be for aye:
My heart, my hand, my life, my limbs,
Are hers till dying day.
Yea, when the spirit gives up
And body breathes his last,
Say naytheless " my heart is hers"
When life and all is past.