Classic Poem

Ah were my teares (as many writers bee)
Meere droppes of incke proceeding from my penne,
Then in these sable weedes you should not see
Me seuer'd from societie of men:
Ah me all colours do mine eyes displease,
Saue those two colours, of pure white, and redde,
And yet I dare not florish it in these,
Because I can not, for my colour's dead.
Those colours florish round about each where,
But cheefely with my mistresse in their kinde,
And fayne I would her louely colours weare
So that it might be pleasing to her minde:
But nought will please her ouer-cruell eye,
But blacke, and payle on body, and in face:
Then she triumphes in bewties tyrannie,
When she sees bewtie, bewtie can disgrace,
When her sweet smiling eyes, drye Vestaes throane,
Can blubber'd bleare-eyes drowne in seaes of teares:
And laughes to here poore louers how they moane,
Ioyes in the paper which her prayses beares,
And (for his sake that sent) that schaedule teares:
What but pale enuie doth her hart assaile,
When she would be still fayre, and laugh alone,
And (for her sake) all other's mourne, and paile.