Classic Poem

Sonnet. X.

Hope, like the Hyenna comming to be old,
alters his shape, is turn'd into dispaire:
pitty my hoarie hopes, maid of cleere mould,
thinke not that frownes can euer make thee faire.
What harme is it to kisse, to laugh, to play?
Beauties no blossome if it be not vs'd,
sweet daliance keepeth wrinkles long away,
repentance followes them that haue refus'd.
To bring you to the knowledge of your good,
I seeke, I sue, o try and then beleeue,
each Image can be chast thats caru'd of wood:
you show you liue when men you doe releeue.
Iron with wearing shines, rust wasteth treasure,
On earth but loue there is no other pleasure.