Classic Poem

So did Parthenophe release myne hart,
So did she robbe me of myne harts rich threasure,
Thus shall she be his bale before they part,
Thus in her loue she made me such hard measure.
Ay me nor hope of mutuall loue by leasure,
Nor any type of my poore harts release
Remaines to me, how shall I take the ceasure
Of her loues forfeture, which tooke such peace
Combyned with a former loue, then cease
To vexe with sorrowes, and thy greefes encrease.
Tis for Parthenophe thou sufferst smart,
Wyl'de natures wound not curable with art.
Then cease, with choking sighes and hart-swolln throbbes
To draw thy breath, broke of with sorrowes sobbes.