Classic Poem

As many fierie darts as Jove on high,
Dingde downe on Giants in his angrie mood,
So many whirle about my Bodie nigh.
As longing causeles for my guiltles blood,
 The frighted Aire raine Ashes downe apace,
 And cheerefull sunne flies hence to hide his face.

Thus stand I in a Maze of Miserie,
My Heart (seeing nought but signes of present death)
Seekes how with clipped wings away to flie,
And faine would scape to save his vitall breath
 Ah pouer wretch, but how ist possible?
 I know not how, nor he himselfe can tell.

The world's his foe, and LOVE doth him betraie,
Despaire of helpe, his senses doth confound,
His cursed Guide (for nonce) leades him astraie,
Fortune accuseth him on no sure ground.
 And which doth gaule him most, and most doth grieve
 His Mistris rash, gainst him doth judgement give.

He Mercie cries, and calleth for his Booke,
But proude Disdaine doth stop the Judges eares,
So that on him she'le not so much as looke,
And thus from Barre, they quickelie doe him beare,
 From ALBAS presence is he quite debarde,
 Exilde from Her, this is his sentence harde.