Classic Poem

My hart the Anvile where my thoughts doe beate,
My words the hammers, fashioning my desires,
My breast the forge, including all the heate,
Love is the fuell which maintaines the fire.

My sighes, the bellowes which the flame increaseth,
Filling myne eares with noyse and nightly groning,
Toyling with paine, my labour never ceaseth,
In greevous passions my woes styll bemoning.

Myne eyes with teares against the fire stryving,
With scorching gleed my hart to cynders turneth:
But with those drops the coles againe revyving,
Still more and more unto my torment burneth.
With Sisiphus thus doe I role the stone,
And turne the wheele with damned Ixion .