Classic Poem

Alba I have not lived over long,
Yet have I hollow eyes, and haires halfe gray:
My yeares not many, for I am but yong,
Though wrinckled be my cheekes and lims decay.
 But is this Destnie, or ist pure Deceit?
 That hath on me (thus) wrought this cunning feat?

Ift be the first, why then none could prevent
My wretched Stars to scape this miserie?
Ift be the latter that such ill me ment,
I needes must think it was mine Enemie:
 It was (indeed), thy selfe it was ( Faire Witch )
 That with thy beautie wrought me to be sich.

Thou art too Faire (I see) for to be true,
And too too False for one that is so Faire:
Yet for my wrongs thou seemest not to rue,
Nor for my Crosses ought at All dost care:
 And yet my Love's more fervent still towards thee,
 My sparks growne flames, my cinders bonfires bee.

Only I grieve my daies are at an end,
Fore I can of thee any favour gaine:
And which is worse, I likely am to spend
All the Remainder, yet no Grace obtaine.
 Unhappie Pilgrim I, borne still to evill,
 To shrine her for a Saint, who is a Devill.