Classic Poem

Like bloodie Lion, or a stinging Snake,
With proud Disdaine to aggravate my smart,
Love into me (unaskt) his way doth take,
Died all with blood, and Blood tis of my Hart,
Which wounded deepe, still languishing doth lie,
Expecting every minute when to die.

Thousands of Wounds my life hath quite bereft,
And wanting blood, Palenes sits in my face:
My soule this Corse (his mansion House) hath left,
Nor dares he back retire to his old place.
This Martyrdome, although there's many see,
None me caresseth, or doth comfort mee.

My Life runnes fondly to his mortall Foe,
Hoping for Help, where he his hurt did finde:
My spirits after him amaine doe goe,
Whilst liveles Bodie doth remaine behinde,
On which grim death doth seaze, as on his pray,
And of his breath to reave him doth assay.

A farre off Peace I see, but Warre at hand,
Love single strikes me, (but with double paine)
Kild is my hart by Cruell she's Command,
And he that slew him cleped is Disdaine:
Loe here of my kinde Dame the Exercise,
Hate is her Chapman, Blood her Marchandise.