Classic Poem

To thee (Deare Faire) that mak'st me fare amisse,
To thee my Goddesse I my prayers make,
And prostrate fall before thy Shrine of Blisse ,
Craving of thee, that them in worth thou take,
 Whilest I to thee my Hart in humble wise,
 Upon thy beautious Altar sacrifise.

Peruse with kindenes this my sad complaint,
Since I with pacience doe abide the paine,
And but thy willing eare herewith acquaint,
So thy remembrance not forget the same:
 Thy hart gainst me, not still induratize,
 But my sad thoughts in me retranquillize.

I will not leave, untill I leave to love,
(And leave to love, I will not till I die)
But thy hard flintie Breast, Ile somewhat move,
To moane my Griefe, the cause I alwaies crie.
 Crie will I to thee till my Voyce be hoarse,
 And never leave thee till thou take remorse.

From thy faire eyes, the Sunnes Precursors bright,
This fire hath sprung, which all my parts doth burne,
No Art-Enammeld lines that I do write,
No praies nor praiers, to Mercie thee can turne:
 Yet come the worst, the Age (to come) shall say,
 I bare the prize for Constancie away.