Classic Poem

Sad Teares, that from my mestfull Hart doe runne,
Thrust forth through watrie Eyes by Sorrow kinde:
If you into LOVES paths by chance shall come,
Where he doth walke, and pitie thinke to finde:
In vaine then doe you stirre abrode, in vaine
You lose your travaile, labour, and your paine.

For whilst the way unto an Humour new
You open wide, fierce ALBA shutteth close
Her breast from mercie, making me to rew,
And for your Friendship, counts you as her foes:
Wherein, she doth a damd Example show,
Forcing her Hart gainst Conscience hers to goe.

Then wofull teares what will you doe as now?
LOVES'S dead and gone, all pitie is exilde:
Skornd is my Constancie and loyall Vow,
And through Disdaine I daily am revilde.
My Hopes are blasted, and as withered seeme,
Whilst still Disgraces shew before me greene.

Come then, turne backe, and with me secretlie
Bewaile my torment, least my Hart appeere
A senseles stone, through proud Impietie:
And my blinde eyes a fountaine running cleere.
And since not any will our Griefes bemone,
Lets swallow downe our Sorrowes all alone.