Classic Poem

Sonnet. IX.

Whilst Eccho cryes, what shall become of mee,
and desolate my desolations pitty,
thou in thy beauties charrack sitt'st to see
my tragick down-fall, and my funerall ditty.
No Tymbrell, but my hart thou play'st vpon,
whose strings are stretch'd vnto the hiest key,
the dyopazon loue, loue is the vnison,
in loue, my life and labours wast away.
Onely regardlesse, to the world thou leau'st mee,
whilst slaine-hopes, turning from the feast of sorrow,
vnto Dispaire (their King) which nere deceiues me,
captiues my hart, whose blacke night hates the morrow.
And hee, in ruth of my distressed cry,
Plants mee a weeping starre within mine eye.