Classic Poem

O eyes, which do the spheres of beauty move,
Whose beams be joys, whose joys all virtues be,
Who while they make love conquer, conquer love,
The schools where Venus hath learned chastity;
O eyes, where humble looks most glorious prove
Only loved tyrants, just in cruelty:
Do not, O do not from poor me remove;
Keep still my zenith, ever shine on me.
For though I never see them, but straight ways
My life forgets to nourish languished sprites,
Yet still on me, O eyes, dart down your rays:
And if from majesty of sacred lights,
Oppressing mortal sense, my death proceed,
Wracks triumphs be, which love (high set) doth breed.