Classic Poem

Avrora, now haue I not cause to rage,
Since all thy fishing but a frog hath catch'd?
May I not mourne to see the morning match'd,
With one that's in the euening of his age?
Should hoary lockes, sad messengers of death,
Sport with thy golden haires in beautie's inne?
And should that furrow'd face foyle thy smooth skinne,
And bath it selfe in th' ambrosie of thy breath?
More then mine owne I lament thy mishaps;
Must he who, iealous through his owne defects,
Thy beautie's vnstain'd treasure still suspects,
Sleepe on the snow-swolne pillowes of thy paps,
While as a lothed burthen in thine armes,
Doth make thee out of time waile curelesse harmes.