Classic Poem

When thine hart-pearcing answers could not hinder
Mine harts hot hammer on thy steele to batter,
Nor could excuses cold quench out that cynder
Which in me kindled was, she weigh'd the matter,
And turning my sunnes chariot him did place
In Libras equall mansion, taking pawse,
And casting with deepe iudgement to disgrace
My loue, with dealing cruell in the cause:
She busilie with earnest care deuised,
How she might make her bewtie tyrannous,
And I for euer to her yoke surprised:
The meanes founde out with cunning perillous:
She turn'd the wheeles with force impetuous,
And arm'd with womanlike contagion,
My sunne she lodged in the Scorpion.