Classic Poem

Next when my sunne by progresse tooke his hold
In Cancer of my mistresse craftie minde,
How retrograde seem'd she, when as I told
That in his clawes such torches I did finde,
Which if she did not to my teares lay plaine
That they might quenched be from their outrage,
My loues hot Iune should be consum'd in payne
Vnlesse her pittie make my greefe asswage.
Oh how she frownes, and like the Crabbe backe turnes
When I request her put her beames apart:
Yet with her beames my soules delight she burnes:
She pities not to thinke vpon my smart
Nor from her Cancers clawes can I depart,
For there the torch of my red-hot desier
Greeues, and releeues me, with continuall fier.