Classic Poem

My Muse, what ailes this ardour
To blase my onely secrets?
Alas, it is no glory
To sing mine owne decaid state;
Alas, it is no comfort
To speake without an answer;
Alas, it is no wisedome
To shew the wound without cure.

My Muse, what ailes this ardour?
Mine eyes be dim, my lyms shake,
My voice is hoarse, my throate scorcht,
My tong to this my roofe cleaues,
My fancy 'amazde, my thoughts dull'd,
My hart doth ake, my life faints,
My soule beginnes to take leaue.
So great a passion all feele,
To thinke a soare so deadly
I should so rashly rip vp.

My Muse, what ailes this ardour?
If that to sing thou art bent,
Go sing the fall of old Thebes,
The warres of ougly Centaures,
The life, the death of Hector;
So may the song be famous:
Or if to loue thou art bent,
Recount the rape of Europe,
Adonis' end, Venus' net,
The sleepie kisse the Moone stale;
So may the song be pleasant.

My Muse, what ailes this ardour
To blase my only secrets?
Wherein doe only flourish
The sorie fruits of anguish
The song thereof aye last will,
The tunes be cryes, the words plaints;
The singer is the song's theame,
Wherein no eare can haue ioy,
Nor eye receiue due obiect,
Ne pleasure here, ne fame get

My Muse, what ailes this ardour?
Alas, she saith I am thine!
So are thy paines my paines too.
Thy heated hart my seat is,
Wherein I burne; thy breath is
My voyce, too hot to keepe in
Besides, loe, here the author
Of all thy harmes: lo, here she,
That onely can redresse thee,
Of her will I demaund help.

My Muse, I yeeld; my Muse, sing;
But all thy song herein knit.
The life we lead is all loue,
The loue we hold is all death;
Nor ought I craue to feed life,
Nor ought I seeke to shun death,
But onely that my goddesse
My life, my death doe count hers.