Classic Poem

Ye Hoarie Hils , and Icie waters colde,
If what fresh Aprill gives, sharp Janivere
To take away from you himselfe shewes bolde:
Yet quickly doth the Sunne with pleasing cheere,
 Restore to you your Liveries greene againe,
 And flowring Banks longst which you streme amain.

But now to me, from whom mine ALBA faire,
Still hides her selfe, all Hope is withered quite:
Nor will she shew her selfe, to ease my Care,
For my yong Plant an envious frost doth bite,
 Since that same hart that gentle was of yore,
 Hardning it selfe gainst me, still swelleth more.

Nature you governes, but Love rules ore mee;
Nature is loving as a Mother kinde,
Love , worse then cruell Stepdame is to see,
And to my losse (gainst conscience) doth me binde,
 Taking from me mine ancient Priviledge,
 Whereby I live, my daies for to abridge.

Then happie Hils you shall be greene againe,
And blessed Springs your Courses you shall holde:
But if that she revive not that hath slaine,
I soone shall dye, Conceit is growne so colde,
 Lest her warme Sunne glide hither it to thaw,
 My freezing Hart no more his breath shall draw.