Classic Poem

These sorrowing sighes, the smoake of mine annoy,
These teares, which heate of sacred flame distils,
Are those due tributes that my faith doth pay
Vnto the tyrant, whose vnkindnes kils.
I sacrifise my youth, and blooming yeares
At her proud feete, and she respects not it;
My flower vntimely's withred with my teares:
And Winter woes, for spring of youth vnfit.
She thinkes a looke may recompence my care,
And so with lookes, prolongs my long-lookt ease,
As short that blisse, so is the comfort rare,
Yet must that blisse my hungry thoughts appease.