Classic Poem

Ouer theis brookes, trustinge to ease myne eyes,
Mine eyes euen great, in laboure with their teares:
I layde my face, wherin (alas) ther lies,
Clusters of clowdes, w ch no Sunne euer cleeres.
 In watrie glasse, my watrie eyes I see:
 Sorrowes ill easd, wher sorrowes paynted be.

My thoughtes imprisned in my secret woes,
With flamie breastes doe issue oft in sownde:
The sownde to this strange ayre no sooner goes,
But that it doth with Ecchôs force rebownde.
 And makes me heare, the playntes I would refrayne:
 Thus outward helpes, my inward grifes mayntayne.

Now in this sand, I would discharge my mynde,
And cast from me, part of my burd'nous cares:
But in the sand, my Tales foretold I fynde,
And see therin, how well the writer fares.
 With streame, ayre, sand, myne eyes & ears conspire:
 What hope to quench, wher ech thinge blowes the fire.