Classic Poem

Like as the hart that lifteth up his ears,
To hear the hound that hath him in the chase,
Doth cast the wind in dangers and in fears,
With flying foot to pass away a pace,
So must I fly of love the vain pursuit
Whereof the gain is lesser than the fruit.

And I also must loath those leering looks,
Where love doth lurk still with a subtle sleight,
With painted mocks, and inward hidden hooks,
To trap bytrust that lieth not in wait.
The end whereof, assay it whoso shall,
Is sugared smart, and inward bitter gall.

And I also must fly such Circian songs
Wherewith that Circes, Ulysses did enchant,
These wily wits, I mean, with filed tongs
That hearts of steel have power to daunt,
Whoso as hawk that stoopeth to their call
For most desert receiveth least of all.

But woe to me that first beheld those eyes,
The trap wherein I say that I was tane:
An outward salve which inward me destroys,
Whereto I run as rat unto her bane.
As to the fish sometime it doth befall
That with the bait doth swallow hook and all.

Within my breast, wherewith I daily fed
The vain repast of amorous hot desire,
With loitering lust so long that hath me fed
Till he hath brought me to the flaming fire.
In time, as Phoenix ends her care and carks,
I make the fire and burn myself with sparks.