Classic Poem

Stella oft sees the very face of woe
Painted in my beclouded stormy face,
But cannot skill to pity my disgrace.
Not though thereof the cause herself she know.
Yet hearing late a fable which did show
Of lovers never known a grievous case,
Pity thereof gat in her breast such place
That, from the sea derived, tears' spring did flow.
Alas, if fancy, drawn by imaged things
Though false, yet with free scope more grace doth breed
Than servant's wreck, where new doubts honor brings;
Then think, my dear, that you in me do read
Of lovers' ruin some sad tragedy.
I am not I; pity the tale of me.