Classic Poem

The flames of fyre and clowds of cold, repugnant in my brest,
Hath quite exiled me from ioy, and reft all quiet rest.
Yet oft (alas) in shewe I smile, to shade my inwarde smarte,
When in my laughter waues of woe, well nie do burst my harte.
Whose driery thoughts I would to God, were seene so ful to thee,
As mine afflicted minde in payne, doth powre them out on mee.
So should perhaps thy frozen hart, now harde as Flintie stone,
Within thy brest w th melting teares, take ruth on this my mone.
But as he well cannot discerne, what tempest Saylers trye,
That neuer crost the checking tydes, it surge with waues on hye.
No more canst thou my cares descry, for wante of ryper skill,
Although in deede the shewes thereof, doe pleade for pittie still.
In vayne therfore my pensiue plaintes, by Pen I doe expresse,
When both thy will and want of skill, denies to yeelde redresse.
The cruell fates (I feare) forbids, that I such blisse should finde,
Or sacred I OVE some other hap, hath to my share assignde.

Sithe follye tis to wishe, what may not be enioyed,
And wisdom to eschew the harmes, wherwith we are anoyed.
Let reason guyde thy thoughts, when fancie most doth fight,
And count him victor of the Field, that conquers bewties might.