Classic Poem

The bitter plaints wherewith my soule I wound,
With skalding sighs which smoke from forth my breast:
My cheekes through griefe, pale wan and hollow found,
My troubled Thoughts which reave me of my rest:
Salt watrie teares, which raine from blubbring eye,
Warme blood from Hart distilling inwardly.

The servile yoke which did my freedome breake,
My willing minde to doe what wild Command,
The state wherein I brought my selfe most weake,
The frost and fire wherein I still did stand,
The snare in which LOVE wrapt me so about,
As from the same I nere (yet) could get out.

All these, and many another worser griefe,
Are no such plagues as is that Marble Hart,
(That Marble Hart) that yeelds me no reliefe,
Nor ever sought some comfort to impart.
The revolution of the Heavens, nor any Time,
Can make (that Breast) to yeelds to my Designe.

Vertue doth hinder it, in my despight,
Chaste Honestie maintaines her in her force:
Then LOVE farewell, all Hope Ile banish quite,
I see in Flint is found no kind remorse.
If Teares, Vowes, Gifts, Prayers, Othes no good can doe,
Nor Love obtaine; in vaine tis then to sue.