Classic Poem

What fier encreaste by rage of wynde
or burnynge mowntayne can yow finde
That doth exceede my flamynge ghoste
what Occean underneath the Skies
Where waves and Billowes more doo ryse
then in the love where I am toste

The springe yeelds nott so many flowers
nor dropps of rayne in Aprill showers
Nor harvest yeelds more ripned graines
nor heaven it self more Starres off lighte
Nor more straunge dreames doo passe the night
then I for yow doo suffer paynes

Theis griefs that on our mynds doo praye
by lesse and lesse doo weare awaye
And tyme it selfe the same will cure
yett can I not receave Relyefe
In hope that tyme can ease the griefe
which for your sake I doo endure:

Nothinge is constant here belowe
sometymes the Ebbe sometymes the flowe
From badd to good, from good to worsse
all thinges on earth doo chaunge wee see
And yett theis passions straunge in mee
doo nott retayne that Common course

The captyve Prisoner lyves in hope
that some good happe will geve hime scope
And comforte yeelds hym selfe therebye
butt from this prysone of my mynde
I never looke release to fynde
before that I the death doo die

Butt as the hunter seeks to slaye
the Beaste that faste flies awaye
And spares the hurteles yeeldinge harte
So death that is the end of all
Doth shunne those men that on hym call
and me denies his wisshed darte.

And yett my hope therein is vaine
to thinke that death coulde rydde my paine
Or els my hyghe desires controll
Noe deathe my fansie can remove
For why my fervent constant love
is of the substaunce of my Soule.

The day that I became your thrall
that selfe same day I sawe withall
Tenn thowsande beawtyes shyne in yow
As many vertues there lykewise
And yet oh wretch within your eyes
my planted woes I coulde not veywe.

Ravishte with your perfections rare
of passions I no more toke care
Nor thought what perylls I did passe
Then doth the laboringe man that lyes
Uppon the grounde with sleepinge eyes
thinke on the snake, hidd in the grasse.

Butt yf my choise to hye bee framede
tys love that muste therefore be blamed
Yett he is blynde with hym dyspence
And as for me my will is Bente
Rather to suffer then Repente
for makinge such a sweete offence.