Classic Poem

Unhappy eyes, the causers of my pain,
That to my foe betrayed my strongest hold,
Wherein he like a tyrant now doth reign,
And boasts of winning that which treason sold.
Too late you call for help of me in vain,
Whom love hath bound in chains of massy gold;
The tears you shed increase my hot desire,
As water on the smithy kindles fire.
The sighs that from my heart ascend,
Like wind disperse the flame throughout my breast;
No part is left to harbour quiet rest,
I burn in fire, and do not spend;
Like him, whose growing maw
The vulture still doth gnaw.