Classic Poem

Faire tygresse, tell, contents it not thy sight,
To see me die each day a thousand times?
O how could I commit such monstrous crimes,
As merit to this martirdome by night?
Not only hath thy wrath adiudg'd to paine,
This earthly prison that thy picture keepes,
But doth the soule while as the bodie sleepes,
With many fearfull dreames from rest restraine.
Lo, thus I waste to work a tyrant's will,
My dayes in torment, and my nights in terrour,
And here confin'd within an endlesse erroure,
Without repentance do perseuer still:
That it is hard to iudge though both be lost,
Whose constancie or crueltie is most.