Classic Poem

The darte, the beames, the stringe so stronge I proue,
Whiche my chefe parte dothe passe throughe, parche, and tye,
That of the stroke, the heat, and knott of loue,
Wounded, inflamde, knitt to the deathe, I dye.
Hardned and coulde, farr from affectione's snare
Was once my mynde, my temper, and my lyfe;
While I that syghte, desyre, and vowe forbare,
Whiche to auoide, quenche, loose, noughte booted stryfe.
Yet will not I greife, ashes, thralldom change
For others' ease, their frutte or free estate,
So braue a shott, cleere fyre, and bewtye strange,
Bid me pearce, burne, and bynde longe time and late,
And in my woundes, my flames, and bondes, I fynd
A salue, freshe ayre, and bryghte contented mynde.