Classic Poem

Like to this Sea , LOVE hath me fashiond right,
He full of water, I replete with woe:
He boyles and bubleth up in open sight,
I fret and rage where ere I (wandring) goe:
 He flowes, and bove his banks the surges rise,
 (From me) salt teares gush forth in streaming wise.

He water wants nor, nor my Griefes decrease;
Thousands of quicksands hath he all about,
I, thousand cares that on my Hart do sease:
His waves are cut in twaine, my Hart, throughout.
 The whistling reedes about his banks do sound,
 Sorrow in me is of my song the ground.

Both windes and raine upon him (daily) fall,
I still, distill salt showres and sighs amaine:
By tempests, oft his Channels broke are all,
My Bowels cleft be with continuall paine:
 His bottome none can well perceive or see,
 My Torments without depth sauns sounding bee.

Only we differ thus, he still doth bide
Here, swallowing them that passe alongst this place,
I vade away, and ( Cruell Homicide )
Murther I do my selfe in pitious case.
 Who then can rid me ( Notamie of Woe )
 From these hell plagues? None, but my Cruell Foe .