Classic Poem

Alba. The Months Minde of a Melancholy Lover - Part 2, 16

How long shall I dive in this vastie Sea,
To finde this Perle, this Orient MARGARITE?
How long this bottome sounding shall I be?
Yet nere attaine this precious Jewell bright?
 My labors (like to Hercules ) abound,
 Who more he did, the more to doe, stil found.

I am too weake with Ospraies eyes to looke,
Against the fierie beames of this faire Sun,
Too great a Burthen have I fondly tooke,
For my weake shoulders long since overcome.
 The more I seeke, the farther I, to finde,
 Like to the wretch, that of his sight is blinde.

My brused Bulwarke is not strong enough,
For to resist this beautious Batterie,
My yoke too small, to draw so huge a plough,
Mine eyes too dimme, such Brightnes to descrie:
 This shewes, that as unluckie I was borne,
 To die unfortunate I must not scorne.

Yet Ile not leave to intercessionate,
To her hard Breast, for my too gentle Hart:
That if her Rigor she'le not mitigate,
At least she'le somewhat ease me of this Smart:
 I onely crave, if she'le not yeelde reliefe,
 T'adjourne my paine, and to proroge my Griefe.English