Classic Poem

To give that life which had not breath before,
Prometheus (from above) stole heavenly fire;
For which his boldnes he was plagued sore,
A just reward for such an high aspire.
So whilst I steale from thee (my Heaven above)
The heate which doth revive my dying sprite:
For rashnes mine, eternall griefe I prove.
Yet though our fault's all one, the plague's not like:
He feeles of Vulture one (alone) the smart;
But I have thousands which still gnaw my hart.