Classic Poem

Still in the trace of my tormented thought,
My ceaseless cares must martch on to my death:
Thy least regarde too deerelie have I bought,
Who to my comfort never deign'st a breath.
Why should'st thou stop thine eares now to my cryes,
Whose eyes were open, ready to oppresse me?
Why shutt'st thou not the cause whence al did rise,
Or heare me now, and seeke how to redress me?
Injurious Delia , yet I'le love thee still,
Whilst that I breathe in sorrow of my smart:
I'le tell the world that I deserv'd but ill,
And blame my selfe for to excuse thy hart
Then judge who sinnes the greater of us twaine,
I in my love, or thou in thy disdaine.