Classic Poem

I.

The signes of shame that stayne my blushinge face,
Rise from the feelinge of my ravinge fittes,
Whose joy annoy, whose guerdon is disgrace,
Whose solace flyes, whose sorowe never flittes:
Bad seede I sow'd, worse fruite is now my gayne,
Soone-dying mirth begatt long-living payne.

II.

Nowe pleasure ebbs, revenge beginns to flowe;
One day doth wrecke the wrath that many wrought;
Remorse doth teach my guilty thoughtes to knowe
Howe cheape I sould that Christ so dearely bought:
Faultes long unfelt doth conscyence now bewraye,
Which cares must cure and teares must washe awaye.

III.

All ghostly dints that Grace at me did dart,
Like stobbourne rock I forced to recoyle;
To other flightes an ayme I made my hart
Whose woundes, then welcome, now have wrought my foyle.
Woe worth the bowe, woe worth the Archer's might,
That draue such arrowes to the marke so right!

IV.

To pull them out, to leave them in is deathe,
One to this world, one to the world to come;
Woundes may I weare, and draw a doubtfull breath,
But then my woundes will worke a dreadfull dome;
And for a world whose pleasures passe awaye,
I loost a world, whose joyes are paste decaye.

V.

O sence! O soule! O had! O hoped blisse!
Yow woe, yow weane; yow draw, yow drive me backe;
Yow crosse encountring, like their combate is,
That never end but with some deadly wracke;
When sence doth wynne, the soule doth loose the feilde,
And present happ makes future hopes to yelde.

VI.

O heaven, lament! sense robbeth thee of sayntes,
Lament, O soules! sence spoyleth yow of grace;
Yet sence doth scarce deserve these hard complayntes,
Love is the theefe, sence but the entringe place;
Yett graunt I must, sence is not free from synne,
For theefe he is that theefe admitteth in.