Classic Poem

WHEREIN HIS GRIEF FOR LAURA'S SICKNESS INCREASES RATHER THAN DIMINISHES HIS FLAME

The topmost Lord, against whom of no use
Is covert or combativeness or flight,
Inflamed my spirit to a new delight
By his own passionate and piercing ruse:
Though his first stroke, tearing my armour loose,
Were certain death, to aggravate my plight,
He shook a shaft of anguish in his right,
So my faint soul on both sides to abuse.
The one, a fiery wound, spurts sparks of hell,
The other tears, which grief on grief devise,
Through eyes, each half a fountain, half a well.
But no relief can come from those mine eyes
To quench the fire, the flaming breast to quell,
Nay, from weak pity passion multiplies.