Classic Poem

To The No Lesse Excellent Then Honorablie Descended Gentlewoman, Mistresse Anne Herne .

Pure Lampe of Vertue, burning alwaies bright,
Who, Grace in me (unworthie) dost infuse:
Cleere Sunne that driv'st each doubtfull Mist from sight,
The firm'st Maintainer of my crased Muse;
 Lo I this mournfull Verse in sable weede,
 From sorrowes Cell, do send thee for to reade.

Daine thou with cheerfull looke, what my sad eye
Distils from Lymbeck of a bleeding Hart;
Fruits of True Love disdainde most wrongfully,
Vouchsafe of me (as of my Dutie part),
 A Wofull Wight, indebted paieth thee so,
 Bankroutes in pleasure, can but pay with woe.

As often as the Moone doth change her course,
And Sunne to novell Signe doth enter in:
So often I do call still for remorse,
Whilst endles sorrow doth new Griefe begin.
 Once I each Month to CRUEL ALBA make,
 A MONTHS MIND, yet no pitie she doth take.

Thou art the SHADOW of her SUBSTANCE faire,
Resembling her most perfectly in Shape:
Ah then but smile, and it shall ease my care,
Though stint it cannot, her nere dying hate:
 Grant me this Boone , and never shall my Verse
 Leave, of thy Christall BROOKE praise to rehearse.