Classic Poem

My Lute, within thy selfe thy tunes enclose,
Thy mistresse' song is now a sorrow's crie;
Her hand benumb'd with Fortune's daily blowes,
Her mind amaz'd can neither's helpe apply.
Weare these my words as mourning weeds of woes, —
Blacke inke becomes the state wherein I die;
And though my mones be not in musicke bound
Of written griefes, yet be the silent ground.

The world doth yeeld such ill-consorted showes,
With circled course, which no-wise stay can trie,
That childish stuffe, which knowes not friends from foes
(Better despisde), bewonder gasing eye.
Thus noble gold downe to the bottome goes,
When worthlesse corke aloft doth floting lye:
Thus in thy selfe least strings are loudest found,
And lowest stops doe yeeld the highest sound.