Classic Poem

My lute, within thyself thy tunes enclose;
Thy mistress' song is now a sorrow's cry;
Her hand benumbed with fortune's daily blows,
Her mind amazed, can neither's help apply.
Wear these my words as mourning weeds of woes,
Black ink becomes the state wherein I die.
And though my moans be not in music bound,
Of written griefs yet be the silent ground.

The world doth yield such ill-consorted shows
(With circled course, which no wise stay can try)
That childish stuff which knows not friends from foes
(Better despised) bewonder gazing eye.
Thus noble gold down to the bottom goes,
When worthless cork aloft doth floating lie.
Thus in thyself least strings are loudest found,
And lowest stops do yield the highest sound.