Classic Poem

Yet was not Hellens face, ne Parris, faire,
Untimely which did weave the Troyans woe,
For former faultes the Gods agreede in ire,
With future panges their vengeance downe to throwe,
And making choyse, as instrument withall,
That Parris love should [be] king Priames thrall.

Such heaped harmes within the Heavens beene,
For one mans ease to cause anothers care,
Unfriendly so the fates mens happes do spin,
In partiall wife to yeelde eche wight his share:
Then, love, why should I cursse, or skorne lawe,
Or blame the dame one whom I stande in awe?

Her vertues rare, her pearlesse beautie bright,
Her Pallas witt, I, joynde with Sabas skill;
My restlesse eyes, which covets so her sight,
Are not the fates which forceth mee this ill,
For hier sprites devised long agoe
My youthfull yeares should passe in pyning woe.