Classic Poem

And wilt thou then, Alexis mine, depart,
And leaue these flowrie meads, and christall streames,
These hills as greene as great with gold and gemmes,
Which courte thee with rich treasure in each part?
Shall nothing hold thee, not my loyall heart,
That burstes to lose the comfort of thy beames,
Nor yet this pipe which wildest Satyres tames,
Nor lambkins' wayling, nor old Dorus' smart?
O ruethlesse shepheard, forrests strange among
What canst thou else but fearfull dangers finde?
But, ah! not thou, but honour doth mee wrong;
O cruell honour, tyrant of the mind!
This said sad Erycine, and all the flowres
Empearled, as shee went, with eyes' salt showres.