Classic Poem

My idle head retaynes the busie hope,
My gasing eye giues ouer her desyre:
My reaching hand would after fauor grope,
My legs yeelde vp and leaue me in the myre.
Tis light t'outrunne, but not to outread the wife,
Thus finde I strife to hinder my deuise.

The time too shorte, to weare so speedie greese,
I still pursue, that shunnes my wylling holde:
Skill is to weake to yeelde my woe releefe,
My cares lyke clowds, infect my hart with colde.
So that if heat should melt so cruell frost,
My heart were drownde, and all the loue were loft.

Betweene two Adamants of equall weyght,
I am the peece of yron to beholde:
Wythout desert, loe I am made the baight,
Denide the ioy that my desyres wolde.
My taste of loue, is lost as you may gesse,
That know how Sickmen sauour bitternesse.

Who would his will, must beare the bitter lot,
The Faucons foote distraynth the Princes hande:
When loue was made, his eyes were quite forgot,
The highest towers in greatest danger stande.
O slipper holde, that for a silly eye,
Can finde no peace, but euer seekes to die.

Die, and doe all the wretched traine of loue,
To know the torment of my boyling smarte:
Her might on me pore man she ment to prooue,
Whom I had thought, should heale my wounded harte.
O cruell penance to my pore desyre,
In such great heat to bring me to the fyre.