Classic Poem

Poore Meleager being in disdaine,
With furious Altea (cruell mother his)
She flang his fatall Brand in firie flame,
Long time kept by her, (as her chiefest blis)
 So as through fire it did (consumde) decay,
 His wretched life did peece-meale waste away.

Altea , mine ALBA is, Meleager , I,
The fatall Brand where bides my life, her Love:
No longer then she keepes this happely
For me, no longer may my spirits move.
 Long time Affection kept it, but as now,
 She flings it in the flame with angrie brow.

Anger's the Fire, Suspect kindles the Flame ,
Conceit's the Bellowes , wherewith she doth blow:
Haste was the hand which flung it in the same,
The Coles, Unkindnes , that did burne it so.
 Ah, but one drop of Water of her Grace ,
 If so I had, twould quencht be in small space.

Thus do I burne, and burning breathe my last,
And breathing last, to naught consume away:
Like to that Lampe whose Oyle when it doth waste,
By lesser light, and lesser doth decay.
 Yet in this Fire I crie still for to move her,
 Ah pitie me th'unhappiest loyall Lover .