Classic Poem

Sonnet. II.

I doe not now complaine of my disgrace,
o cruell fayre one, fayre with cruell crost:
nor of the hower, season, time nor place,
nor of my foyle for any freedom lost;
Nor of my courage by mis-fortune daunted,
nor of my wit, by ouer-weening strooke,
nor of my sence, by any sounde inchaunted,
nor of the force of fierie poynted hooke.
Nor of the steele that sticks within my wound,
nor of my thoughts, by worser thoughts defac'd,
nor of the life I labour to confound;
But I complaine, that beeing thus disgrac'd,
Fyerd, feard, frantick, fetterd, shot through, slaine,
My death is such as I may not complaine.