Classic Poem

Over these brookes, trusting to ease mine eyes
(Mine eyes euen great in labour with their teares),
I laide my face, — my face, wherein their lies
Clusters of cloudes which no sunne euer cleares, —
In watry glasse my watry eyes I see:
Sorrowe's ill-easde where sorrowes painted bee.
My thoughts imprison'd in my secret woes,
With flamie breath do issue oft in sound;
The sound of this strange aier no sooner goes,
But that it doth with Echoe's force rebound,
And makes me heare the plaints I would refraine:
Thus outward helps my inward griefe maintaine.
Now in this sand I would discharge my mind,
And cast from me part of my burdenous cares;
But in the sand my tales foretold I find,
And see therein how well the writer fares.
Since streame, ayre, sand, mine eyes and eares conspire,
What hope to quench, where each thing blowes the fire?