Classic Poem

My lifes Catastrophe is at an end,
The Staffe whereon my sickly Love did leane,
And which from falling (still) did him defend,
Is through mischance in sunder broken cleane.
 Gone is my Mediatrix , my best Advocate ,
 Who usde for me to intercessionate.

Ah that my Love cannot aright be waide
In Ballance just, as merits due desart,
But must with Hate (for her Goodwill) be paide,
Whereof Th'exchequer is mine ALBAS Hart:
 The Saphire cut with his owne dust may be,
 Mine owne pure Faith, in Love confoundeth me.

O be not still unto me (thus) severe ,
But rather Simplest milde in sicknes mine:
Honey with Gawle, Oyle mix with Vineger ,
With frownes, blithe smiles, some sweete with sower of thine,
 Give me (to comfort mine) a Lenative ,
 But not t'encrease my Paine, sharp Corasive .

Canst thou endure that as a Ghost or Sprite ,
I still should haunt thee with my irksome cryes?
Ah yet at last unto thy selfe be like,
Some pitie shew from out those murthring eyes.
 If th'owlt not grant my sute, nor loving be,
 At least, yet in my Griefe, do flatter me.