Classic Poem

The Starre of my mishap impos'd this paine
To spend the Aprill of my yeares in griefe:
Finding my fortune euer in the waine
With still fresh cares, supplide with no reliefe.
Yet thee I blame not, though for thee tis done,
But these weake whings presuming to aspire,
Which now are melted by thine eyes bright sun,
That makes me fall from off my hie desire.
And in my fall I crye for helpe with speede,
No pittying eye lookes backe vpon my feares:
No succour finde I now when most I neede,
My heates must drowne in th'Ocean of my teares.
Which still must beare the title of my wrong,
Caus'd by those cruell beames that were so strong.