Classic Poem

Alas, my heart! mine eye hath wrongid thee,
Presumptuous eye, to gaze on Phyllis' face,
Whose heavenly eye no mortal man may see
But he must die, or purchase Phyllis' grace.
Poor Corydon! the nymph, whose eye doth move thee,
Doth love to draw, but is not drawn to love thee.

Her beauty, Nature's pride and shepherds' praise;
Her eye, the heavenly planet of my life;
Her matchless wit and grace her fame displays,
As if that Jove had made her for his wife:
Only her eyes shoot fiery darts to kill,
Yet is her heart as cold as Caucase hill.

My wings too weak to fly against the sun,
Mine eyes unable to sustain her light,
My heart doth yield that I am quite undone--
Thus hath fair Phyllis slain me with her sight:
My bud is blasted, withered is my leaf,
And all my corn is rotted in the sheaf.

Phyllis, the golden fetter of my mind!
My fancy's idol and my vital power!
Goddess of nymphs and honour of thy kind!
This age's phoenix, beauty's bravest bower!--
Poor Corydon for love of thee must die,
Thy beauty's thrall, and conquest of thine eye.

Leave, Corydon, to plough the barren field,
Thy buds of hope are blasted with disgrace;
For Phyllis' looks no hearty love do yield,
Nor can she love, for all her lovely face.
Die, Corydon! the spoil of Phyllis' eye;
She cannot love, and therefore thou must die!