Classic Poem

To thee farre off (from me) these sighs I send,
To thee farre off from Love, I, neere to die,
To know if thou thy selfewill minde wilt mend,
Desisting from thy hatefull Crueltie.
 Beautie if it be milde, it is renound;
 If it be proud, a foule reproch tis found.

Thou makst a shew as if thou wouldst be kinde:
But tis a shadow, not a substance right:
For comming unto triall straight I finde,
Thy sdainfull chast lookes puts my Hope to flight:
 Whilst thou dost seeme at these my Woes to grieve,
 Yet them with succour never dost relieve.

Thy Griefe (for me) a passion's in a play,
Which men doth ravish with Melancholy:
But acted once, and out of sight away,
In minde, no longer there doth stay, but dy:
 Thou art the Actor playing such a part,
 My griefes neere deeply pearce into thy hart.

O would I could from Reasons Court obtaine,
A Supersedeas , LOVE for to remove,
From out my Breast to thee to ease my paine,
That thou the force thereof a while mightst prove.
 But Destnie wils that I thy slave do stay,
 And so I will, who bound is, must obey.