Classic Poem

Ye lukewarme Teares which from my nere dride eyes,
Streame downe amaine like fountaines day and night,
Wende to my Lady in most humble wise,
And shew to her, my most unhappie plight:
 Wende unto her, who outwardly in shew,
 Seemes pittifull, but (inward) is not so.

Weepe you to her and say; Ist possible
A Creature that so courteous seemes to all,
Shoulde have a hart more cruell and more fell
Then Tiger, harder then a stony wall?
 Ah why seemes she not inwardly as kinde,
 As she doth outward shew, the world to blinde?

This my Icarian soaring (bove my reach)
(Through Beautie, serenising fals my Hart)
How I ore bolde, may headlong fall doth teach,
Whilest LOVE doth play gainst me a subtile part:
 Yet Beauties Birth I am, by her I breath,
 Though live against her favour and her leave.

Wilde fire with milke is quencht, rigor with teares,
Yet naught her stubborne minde can mollifie,
Unto my prayers she stops her deafened eares,
And with Despayre requites my Courtesie,
 Thus am I still starre crossed in my Love,
 As one bewitcht, with whom no good doth prove.