Classic Poem

Sonnett

In that faire face of yours where joyes so ryffe doo shyne
a secrete harme I finde withall that dymmes thes eyes of myne
And in those crysped hayres framd of the fynest golde
a suttle snare I see contryved the yeldinge harte to holde
And those delight[t]full eyes that caste the frendlye looke
doo but convaye in sugred baite the deadlye woundinge hooke
That lovely snow whyte breste where lyvinge comfort growes
doth foster crualtye withall; though maskte with myldar showes
That tongue in hony dypte, so pleasinge to the Eares
yelds in effecte none other fruite but the belevars teares
And that same daynty hande alas to murdrynge faire
will not permitt me downe to sinke butt weltar in dispaire
Be wise therefore my harte take truce with thy desyre
When hope that lede is overthrowne, no helpe but to retyre,