Classic Poem

When to my deadlie pleasure,
When to my liuelie torment,
Ladie, mine eyes remained
Ioyned, alas, to your beames;
With violence of heau'nly
Beautie, tiid to vertue,
Reason abasht retyred;
Gladly my senses yeelded.
Gladly my senses yeelding,
Thus to betray my hart's fort,
Left me deuoid of all life
They to the beamie sunnes went,
Where, by the death of all deaths,
Finde to what harme they hastned.
Like to the silly Syluan,
Burn'd by the light he best liked,
When with a fire he first met.
Yet, yet, a life to their death,
Lady, you have reserued;
Lady, the life of all loue.
For though my sense be from me,
And I be dead, who want sense,
Yet do we both liue in you.
Turned anew, by your meanes,
Unto the flower that ay turnes,
As you, alas, my sunne bends.
Thus do I fall, to rise thus;
Thus do I dye, to liue thus;
Chang'd to a change, I change not.
Thus may I not be from you;
Thus be my senses on you;
Thus what I thinke is of you;
Thus what I seeke is in you;
All what I am, it is you.