Classic Poem

While stormie seas grow calme,
while custom tempers love:
How patiently mishaps to beare,
I shall the practise prove.
If not, my life to spill
with full intent I mind:
Of crueltie thou canst not long
in me a subject find.
Would God thou didst but see
mine Image as I wright:
I wright, and full against my breast
thy naked sword is pight.
And downe my cheeks along
the teares do trickling fall:
Which by and by in stead of teares,
ingrayne in blood I shall.
How well with this my fate,
these gifts of thine agree,
To furnish out my funerall,
the cost will slender be.
My breast shall not be now
first pierced with this blade,
For why? there is a former wound,
which cruell Love hath made.