Classic Poem

Now that my weary spirits do runne their race,
To those transplendent Lamps of ALBA faire:
And gazing there (in vaine) do plead for grace,
Leaving their ancient lodging nakte and bare.
She as their Foe stands on her Braverie,
And passage to their Entrance doth denie.

They finding shut fast close milde Pities gate,
And seeing in what danger I remaine,
With haste returne from whence they came of late,
Retiring to their wonted Home againe,
Where they repose, of Hope quite dispossest,
And there with Feare and Care together rest.

Disdaine those eyes spoyles, that before were bright,
And fierce Desire, that to revenge hath minde
Increaseth still in hart to worke me spite,
Devising how to make her more unkinde:
The one, the Bellowes unto Furie blowes,
The other, Slave to wrathfull Anger showes.

But though to me she seemes as pitilesse,
Seeking my Death, without cause to conspire:
Yet will I beare with all wrongs nere the lesse,
Resolv'd to bide the utmost of her Ire:
Against her wrath Ile true and Humble be,
For Faith's my Fence, my Shield's, Humilitie.