Classic Poem

Lo here the course spun Web of Discontent,
Extract from out the cause of my trew Griefe,
The Quintesence of my Complaint close pent,
Wherein my Hart hath line without reliefe:
The Glasse wherein my sorrowes each may see,
Thou cruell ALBA, thus haste plagued me.

Thinke on the Mestfull MONTHS MINDE I still keepe,
Deprivde of thee, how I doe live forlorne,
All night I sigh, all day I waile and weepe,
As one that hath all pleasures quite forsworne:
Thus (carefull I) doe care for careles thee,
Whilst wretchles thou, makst no account of mee.

Knewst thou what t'were to Love, and what to hate,
I know with Malice thine thou wouldst dispence,
And wouldst enhaunce my Bale to blissefull state,
And Love with Love, not Rigor recompence;
Ah gainst me doe not thou thy wrath incite,
Monstrous it is, Love to repayre with spite.

Be gracious then, though I have graceles bin,
Let Favour thine, above my Merit show,
Against the Tide, why shouldst thou alwaies swim;
And as a froward Tortoys backeward goe?
Not Night, but Light give me with those faire Eyes,
Fierce Serpents (not milde Doves) envenomise.