Classic Poem

Phaebus, farewell; a sweeter saint I serue;
The high conceits thy heav'nly wisedomes breed
My thoughts forget; my thoughts, which never swerue
From her in whom is sowne thir freedome's seed,
And in whose eyes my daily doome I reede.

Phaebus, farewell; a sweeter saint I serue;
Thou art farre off, thy kingdome is aboue;
She heau'n on earth with beauties doth preserue:
Thy beames I like, but her clear rayes I loue;
Thy force I feare, her force I still doe proue.
Phaebus, yeeld vp thy title in my minde
She doth possesse; thy image is defac't:
But if thy rage some braue reuenge will finde
On her, who hath in me thy temple rac't,
Employ thy might, that she my fires may taste:
And how much more her worth surmounteth thee,
Make her as much more base by louing me.