Classic Poem

Within thine eyes mine hart takes all his rest,
In which still sleeping all my sence is drown'd:
The dreames (with which my sences are opprest)
Be thousand louely fancies, turning round
The restlesse wheele of my much busie brayne:
The morning, which from resting doth awake me,
Thy bewtie, banish't from my sight agayne,
When I to long melancholie betake me:
Then full of errours all my dreames I finde,
And in their kindes contrarious, till the day
(Which is her bewtie) set on worke my minde,
Which neuer will cease labour, neuer stay:
And thus my pleasures are but dreames with me,
Whilst mine hot feuers paynes quotidian be.