Classic Poem

I wot not what strange things I haue design'd,
But all my gestures do presage no good;
My lookes are gastly-like, thoughts are my food,
A silent pausing showes my troubled mind:
Huge hosts of thoughts are mustring in my brest,
Whose strongest are conducted by despaire,
Which haue inuolu'd my hopes in such a snare,
That I by death would seeke an endles rest.
What furie in my brest strange cares enroules,
And in the same would reare sterne Plutoe's seate!
Go get you hence to the Tartarian gate,
And breed such terrours in the damned soules:
Too many grieuous plagues my state extorse,
Though apprehended horrours bost not worse.