Classic Poem

Now when the Syren sings, as one dismaid,
I straight with waxe begin to stop mine eares;
And when the crocadile doth shed foorth teares,
I flie away, for feare to be betraid.
I know when as thou seem'st to waile my state,
Thy face is no true table of thy mind:
And thou would'st neuer show thyselfe so kind,
Wert not thy thoughts are hatching some deceit:
Whilst with vaine hopes thou go'st about to fill me.
I wot whereto those drams of fauour tend;
Lest by my death thy cruelties should end,
Thou think'st by giuing life againe to kill me:
No, no, thou shalt not thus thy greatnesse raise,
I'le breake the trumpet that proclaim'd thy praise.