Classic Poem

Ile gaze no more on her bewitching face,
Since ruine harbours there in every place:
For my enchanted soule alike shee drownes
With calmes and tempests of her smiles and frownes.
I'le love no more those cruell eyes of hers,
Which pleas'd or anger'd still are murderers:
For if she dart (like lightning) through the ayre
Her beames of wrath, she kils me with despaire.
If shee behold me with a pleasing eye,
I surfet with excesse of joy, and dye.