Classic Poem

Looke from the Turret of thy high disdaine
(Wherein I see thee, though thou seest me not)
On mee ( fell Faire ) flat Iyeng on the Plaine
Of Lowlinesse , like the least little Mote!
Yet if thy heaunly faces Sunnes do shine
(In grace) on my great Smallnesse I, poore I,
Shall, shining, mount, as if I were Diuine,
Like Motes in Sunne, who, shyning, mount thereby
But if thou Cloude thy faces Heau'n with ought
That may those Sunne-beames lett to shine on mee,
He steepe my selfe in Teares till I be nought,
That thus I brought to nought by cruell Thee,
May charge thee with my fall, when I shall rise
To meet thee, to haue iustice, in the Skyes.