Classic Poem

Faine to content, I bend my selfe to write,
But what to write, my minde can scarce conceiue:
Your radiant eies craue obiects of delight,
My hart no glad impressions can receiue:
To write of griefe, is but a tedious thing:
And wofull men, of woe must needly sing.

To write the truce, the wars, the strife, the peace,
That Loue once wrought in my distempred hart:
Were but to cause my woonted woes encrease,
And yeeld new life to my concealed smart:
Who tempts the eare with tedious lines of griefe,
That waits for ioy, complaines without reliefe.

To write what paines supplanteth others ioy,
For-thy is folly in the greatest wit,
Who feeles, may best decipher the annoy,
Who knowes the griefe, but he that tasteth it?
Who writes of woe, must needes be woe begone,
And writing feele, and feeling write of mone

To write the temper of my last desire,
That likes me best, and appertains you most:
You are the Pharos whereto now retire,
My thoughts long wandring in a forren coast,
In you they liue, to other ioyes they die,
And liuing draw their foode from your faire eie.

Enforst by Loue, and that effectuall fire,
That springs from you to quicken loiall harts:
I write in part the prime of my desire,
My faith, my feare, that springs from your desarts;
My faith, whose firmnes neuer shunneth triall,
My feare, the dread and danger of deniall.

To write in briefe, a legend in a line,
My hart hath vow'd to draw his life from yours;
My lookes haue made a Sunne of your sweete eine,
My soule doth drawe his essence from your powres:
And what I am, in fortune or in loue,
All those haue sworne, to serue for your behoue.

My sences sucke their comforts from your sweete,
My inward minde, your outward faire admires;
My hope lies prostrate at your pities feete,
My hart, lookes, soule, sence, minde, and hope desires;
Beleefe, and fauour, in your louely sight,
Els all will cease to liue, and pen to write