Classic Poem

Disdaine assaulted hath mine ALBA faire,
Fixing fast foot deep in her marble brest:
A blacksome Clowde hath darkt my beautious Aire,
Where cheerfull Sunne before with smile did rest.
She most unlike her selfe a Tyrant showes,
Whilst as a Tiger mad with rage she growes.

All for her pleasure (me for to displease)
Pitie she bandies from her tender hart:
Poyson, not honey, now must her appease:
Yet my Desire runs headlong to his smart,
Headlong he runs to her spite-tainted minde,
Which over fierce and cruell he doth finde.

My hopeles Chance, through Vaile (as twere) I see,
Her quondam beautious eyes are bloodshot now:
Exorde, desirde, intreated, they'le not be,
They'le not relent, repent, nor yeeld or bow:
Lightnings of Anger they do shew aright,
Thunders of Furie darting forth despight.

The dangers great my harmeles Hart doth spie,
Yet for all this, from her he'le not retire:
And whilst more humble he fore her doth lie,
The more she sullen swels with wrathfull Ire.
A Monster then I may her mirorise,
Since she delights in such strange Tragedies.