Classic Poem

O, DO not wanton with those eyes,
—Lest I be sick with seeing;
Nor cast them down, but let them rise,
—Lest shame destroy their being.

O, be not angry with those fires,
—For then their threats will kill me;
Nor look too kind on my desires,
—For then my hopes will spill me.

O, do not steep them in thy tears,
—For so will sorrow slay me;
Nor spread them as distract with fears;
—Mine own enough betray me.