Classic Poem

A fearefull thought, which never doth remove
But when in armes hee holdes his heartes delight;
A wrangling hate where once was passing love,
Oft cold with hope, yet never quenched quite;
More cleare in sightes then woordes this woe is seene,
Sowne by suspect, but rooted with debate;
Wacht with mistrust whilst that the eare is greene,
Through ripe, mowne downe with syth of mortall hate,