Classic Poem

Thou , att whose feete I waste mie soule in sighes,
Before whose beautie mie proude hearte is meeke,
Thou who make'st dove-like mie fierce falcon-cies,
And pale'st the rose of mie Lancastrian cheeke
With one colde smyle about this budded mouth:
Oh! that mie harmlesse vengeaunce I could wreake,
On that pale rival bloome of thine!—the South
Raves not more fell, prisoned an Aprill weeke,
To feede on lilie-banks, than I to prey
Some greedie minutes on that blossome whyte,
Whose gentle ravage thou'dst too long delaie!—
O when these Roses of our cheekes unite,
Will't not a summer-happie season be
If not for Englande, in sweete soothe for me!