Classic Poem

Hard hap had I, to fall into thy hand,
Who giv'st thy selfe to endles crueltie;
When to thy flintie heart wilt give command,
To change his wont, and somewhat gentler be?
Wilt thou thy Beautie faire, adulterise,
And seekst thou still on me to tiranise?

Ist possible thy yeares so few and small,
So many ancient mischiefes should containe?
Thy swelling pride, I long have borne withall,
Because that Beautie thereof is to blame,
Which still the more in fairenes it exceedes,
The more it joyes in coy disdained deedes.

I grieve at thy devises gainst me wrought,
And sorrow, that wits sharper that they show,
The shroder and unhappier should be thought,
Prone unto ill, but unto Goodnes slow.
But for to seeke to murther (through disdaine)
A harmeles heart, is worse then Murderers staine.

What moves thee then, thy selfe thus to disgrace,
Unfitting for thy Sex, where nought should be
But kindenes milde, far altring from thy face,
Where nothing but rare beautie we can see?
If then so faire a Sunne, such foule cloudes hide,
Let me still in eternall Darkenes bide.