Classic Poem

Sonnet. IX.

Woe to mine eyes, the organs of mine ill,
hate to my hart for not concealing ioy,
a double curse vpon my tongue be still,
whose babling lost what els I might enioy.
When first mine eyes did with thy beautie toy,
they to my hart thy wondrous vertues told,
who fearing least thy beames should him destroy,
what ere he knew did to my tongue vnfold.
My teltale tongue, in talking ouerbold,
what they in priuate counsell did declare,
to thee in plaine and publique tearmes vnrould,
and so by that made thee more coyer farre.
What in thy praise he spoake, that didst thou trust,
And yet my sorrowes thou doost hold vniust.