Classic Poem

My hungry eyes, through greedy covetize,
Still to behold the object of theyr payne:
With no contentment can themselves suffize,
But having pine, and having not complayne.
For lacking it, they cannot lyfe sustayne,
And seeing it, they gaze on it the more:
In theyr amazement lyke Narcissus vayne
Whose eyes him starv'd: so plenty makes me pore.
Yet are myne eyes so filled with the store
Of that fayre sight, that nothing else they brooke:
But loath the things which they did like before,
And can no more endure on them to looke.
All this worlds glory seemeth vayne to me,
And all theyr shewes but shadowes saving she.