Classic Poem

As Christall Glasse in which the Sunne doth shine,
I like mine ALBAS Angels heavenly feature:
But when she deadly wounds this Corse of mine,
I lothe her more then any murthring Creature:
More then a Theefe that robs and stealeth pelfe,
I hate her, when she steales me from my selfe.

My hart is griev'd cause it doth disagree:
For whilst my Minde to love her doth devise,
And thinks her worthie honored for to bee,
A Sdainfull thought through Hatred doth arise,
Which skornes that one so Rich, a Theefe shuld prove,
That one so Faire, a Murtheresse is in love.

I know not what to seeke, nor what I should,
Yet have I sought till I have lost my sense:
Although truth to confesse, faine love I would,
And yet not die for this too Cruell wench.
Betwixt these two fain would I find a Meane,
Alas, Women have none, they alwaies keepe Th'extreme.

Then how for me ist possible to love,
If my best ALBA once from me be tooke?
How shall I live when thousand Deaths I prove?
When not this one (the least) I scarce can brooke.
Ah woe is me, a double mixt Desire,
To haste my Death the sooner doth conspire.