Classic Poem

Sick in my lothed Bed I languish fast,
Nor can my learned Doctor help me ought,
His cunning now is at the latest cast,
Yet he no ease to crased me hath brought.
 And marveile none though he no help can finde,
 Sicke am I not in Bodie, but in minde.

My hart each houre doth worse and worser prove,
And my Disease encreaseth more and more,
Because he wants her sight whom I doe love:
Nor can I have a salve for this my sore,
 Lesse so much labour, LOVE for me doth take,
 As my Phisition, ALBA faire to make.

Sick is my soule, my Body languisheth,
Th'one's farre from health, the other's nothing nie:
So as I doubtfull live, scarce drawing breath,
Twixt feare and hope in this extremitie.
 A strange Consumption hath me wasted long,
 And for a Pearle restorative I long.

This for me, then all Phisick is most sure,
Or els I doubt I never shall be whole:
For whilst that Nature would my Bodie cure,
Love (pestilenzing) doth infect my soule.
 Then ALBA shew now if thou be'st Divine,
 Raise Dead to life, for now, or nere tis time.