Classic Poem

Sonnet. VIII.

As drawes the golden Meteor of the day,
Exhaled matter from the ground, to heauen,
and by his secret nature, there doth stay
the thing fast held, and yet of hold bereauen,
So by th' attractive excellence, and might,
borne to the power of thy transparant eyes,
drawne from my selfe, rauisht with thy delight,
whose dumbe conceits diuinely syranyze:
Loe; in suspence of feare, and hope, vpholden,
diuersly poyz'd, with passions that paine mee,
no resolution dares my thoughts imbolden,
since tis not I, but thou that doost sustaine mee.
O if ther's none but thou can worke my woe,
Wilt thou be still vnkind and kill mee so?