Classic Poem

I bathing late, in bathes of sovereigne ease,
Not in those bathes where beauties blisse doth flowe,
But even at Bathe, which many a guest doth please;
But loe mishap! those waves hath wrought my woe.
There love I sawe her seemely selfe to lave,
Whose sightly shape so sore my heart did heate,
That soone I shund those streames my selfe to save;
But scorching sighes so set mee in a sweate,
That loe! I pine to please my peevish will,
And yet I freese with frostes of chilling feare.
Thus in extremes I live and languish still,
Without releefe, my restlesse woes to weare:
I blame the bathe as bruer of my bale,
To give mee dregges when others drinke delight;
Thus to the streames I tell a senselesse tale,
Time to beguile, when absence spittes her spite.
But now perforce I sue to thee (sweete wench);
With teares I pleade for pittie and for ruth,
But if thou scornst my scorched heart to quench,
Doe but commaunde, and death shall trie my truth.
This blemish, then, by thee, the bathe shall gett,
Which many one to health hath helpt of yore,
A meane to mashe men in dame Beauties nett,
And cannot give a salve to cure their sore;
Which if you shame, then say no more but soe,
I yeeld to love: those woordes will ease my woe.