Classic Poem

If what is heavie craves the Center base,
(The earth below) as nature willes the same,
Heavie the wofull griefes are in this case,
Which inward in my heart I do sustaine.
And if what's light, by kinde aloft doth mount,
Then light's my Love with thee, of light account.
So that in doubtfull dangerous extreame,
Wretch that I am, my selfe am sore afraide
And doubt of thee, so farre from golden meane,
Nor know I wel out of this depth to wade,
Lest that my life be shortned, or I die,
Whether it heavy, falles; or light, ascends on hie.