Classic Poem

To shunne the fury off the hoote Sunnebeame
Pensive Phylander lefte his flocke a while
And on a bancke faste by a Cristall streame
Under the Baye tree shade this framd his stile.

Why have nott I unhappie Sheepherds swaine
A sencles lyfe lyke to this Laurer greene
Never to taste off love, the Joy nor payne
Nor wishe to late that I hadd never seene.

Safelye within thy Barke was Daphnae shrinde
To shunne the rage of Phaebus frindly fire
But wretchede I no suche retrayte cann fynde
To shrowde my harte from force of my desire.

The lyghtninge blastes which from hye heavens are throwne
thy blessed toppe doth never touche nor rent
But my wane lymmes eblasted are and Blowne
With many a flashe that from her eyes are sente.

Thy lyvelye boughes with chearfull endles Springe
In spight off winters wracke are fresh and faire
But to my happs no hope cann Comeforte bringe
My buddinge Joyes are nypte with colde dispaire.

When thy sweete leaves into the fire are Caste
with cracklinge wise amidste their heat they crie
But those straunge flames wherin my lyfe doth wast
Secret unknowne in me muste lyve and dye.