Classic Poem

Come Death, the anchor-hold of all my thoughts,
My last resort whereto my soule appeales,
For all too-long on earth my fancy dotes,
Whilst age upon my wasted body steales.
That hart, being made the prospective of horror,
That honored hath the cruelst faire that lives,
The cruelst faire, that sees I languish for her,
Yet never mercy to my merrite gives:
Thys is her Lawrell and her triumphe's prize,
To tread me downe with foote of her disgrace,
Whilst I did builde my fortune in her eyes,
And layd my live's rest on so faire a face:
Which rest I lost, my love, my life and all:
So high attempts to low disgraces fall.