Classic Poem

My hart imprisoned in a hopeles Ile,
Peopled with Armies of pale jealous eyes,
The shores beset with thousand secret spyes,
Must passe by ayre, or else dye in exile.

He framd him wings with feathers of his thought,
Which by theyr nature learn'd to mount the skye,
And with the same he practised to flye,
Till he himselfe thys Eagles art had taught.

Thus soring still, not looking once below,
So neere thyne eyes celestiall sunne aspyred,
That with the rayes his wafting pyneons fired.
Thus was the wanton cause of hys owne woe.
Downe fell he in thy Beauties Ocean drenched,
Yet there he burnes, in fire thats never quenched.