Classic Poem

My joyles Hart a troubled Spring is like,
Which from the tops of matchles Alpes most hie,
Falls with a mightie noise downe headlong right,
By uncouth stony wayes most dreadfully,
Where all his Hopes he in the Deepe doth drowne,
A fatall signe of fortunes heavie frowne.

Darke pitchie clowdes of hugie Mountaines steepe,
The loftiest part do hide from Sunny heate:
Seeld any winde of Pitie there doth fleete,
Them to dissolve, their thicknes is so great.
For no calme Aire of gentle Love doth blow,
Where swelling Anger frets in furious show.

Thence doth my Tributarie Hart forth send,
Through peable stones, now here, now there along,
A little Brooke into the Sea to wend,
As signe that I my dutie would not wrong:
For ALBA mine (Degree above Compare)
A large Sea is of sundrie Beauties rare.

A bitter cause, me bitter teares makes shed,
Whose envious Stepdame is a Froward Will,
Which is by Selfe conceit too wanton fed,
Th'efficient cause that I these drops distill:
Which though in outward shew you white them see,
Yet pure Red blood they in my Bodie bee.