Classic Poem

Pure Ivorie , white with spot of Crimson red,
Where Beauties First Borne lay the perfect Molde,
Or like Aurora rising from her Bed,
Such was mine ALBA faire for to beholde.
 Such was She, when She lovely LOVE ore came,
 The Conquerors Glory, Conquereds Pleasing Shame .

But now that Cullor faire hath changde his grace,
Through Burning Fever , (deadly in his kinde)
And Sallow Palenes stained hath that Face,
To whome the Prize for Favour was assinde,
 Sicke is my Lady , sicke is all Delight ,
 And brightest Day is turnde to darkest Night.

Fortune hath stolne from ALBA, tooke from LOVE,
From him she takes his Solace, Sport and Play ,
From Her her Beautie which she would improve,
And to her selfe, would (falsely) it convay.
 Being Pitifull she Cruell seemes to be,
 And in her Blindenes sheweth that she can see.

False Fortune darke as Molde in any Good;
But to doe Hurt, as Argus , full of Eyes,
In outward shew, a Tiger fierce and wood:
And yet to me she's Kinde in piteous wise.
 Since She, by drawing Beautie from that place,
 Quencht hath my Fier, to ease me for a space.