Classic Poem

Shall these same Eyes, but now no Eyes at all,
Raine Teares still thus? and shall this my poore Hart
In vaine upon a flintie Corse still call
For mercie, who no Mercie will impart?
Shal this my Tongue now hoarse, with (Pitie) crying,
Nere finde reliefe, but still a Voice denying?

Ah partiall LOVE! Ah, World unmeet for men!
Ah maners fit for savadge Beasts to loathe!
Ah wicked Fortune thus dost quit me then!
Because thou seest my selfe with Love I cloathe,
Another shall despoyle me and unbare?
Is this reward for faith vowde to the FAIRE?

Sweet meate sowre sauce deserves, I must confesse,
But pure Love, should nere purchase Hate in right:
By Ones Disdaine, which is remedilesse,
I live to like (unlov'd) to worke my spight.
Wretched's that Wight, but faithfull Paterne rare,
That doth through Love, Death to himselfe prepare.

Now by these brinish teares that outwardly
Distill from weeping eyes, like showers of raine:
And by those drops of blood unseene of eye,
Which inwardly from hart streame downe amaine:
And by what els I have, All which, is Thine,
Begin to love, els end this life of mine.