Classic Poem

Ranckle the wound did in my head apace
When fairest Shee to play the surgeon came,
And whilst her snow white hand did me the grace
To lay the plaister on, which heald the same:
A wonder strange, no sooner did she tuch
The hurt, but it appeard to be none such.
Yet woe is me, no sooner by that hand
Was heald in head my outward festring wound,
But that in sted of that as countermand,
One mortall fear at inward hart I found.
Thus (Love) thou seest is changed my estate,
She checkes with death, that fore gave life for mate.