Classic Poem

If now, cleare Po, that pittie be not spent,
Which for to quench his flames did once thee moue,
Whom the great thunderer thundred from aboue,
And to thy siluer bosome burning sent,
To pitie his coequall be content;
That in effect doth the like fortune proue,
Throwne headlong from the highest heau'ns of loue:
Here burning on thy borders I lament,
The successe did not second my dissigne,
Yet must I like my generous intent,
Which cannot be condemn'd by the euent,
That fault was fortune's, though the losse be mine;
And by my fall I shall be honour'd oft,
My fall doth witnesse I was once aloft.