Classic Poem

As oft as I behold and see
The sovereign beauty that me bound,
The nigher my comfort is to me,
Alas, the fresher is my wound.

As flame doth quench by rage of fire,
And running streams consume by rain,
So doth the sight that I desire
Appease my grief and deadly pain.

Like as the fly that seeth the flame
And thinks to play her in the fire,
That found her woe, and sought her game
Where grief did grow by her desire,

When first I saw these crystal streams
Whose beauty made this mortal wound;
I little thought within their beams
So sweet a venom to have found:

Wherein is hid the cruel bit
Whose sharp repulse none can resist,
And eke the spur that strains each wit
To run the race against his list.

But wilful will did prick me forth;
Blind Cupid did me whip and guide;
Force made me take my grief in worth;
My fruitless hope my harm did hide.

As cruel waves full oft be found
Against the rocks to roar and cry,
So doth my heart full oft rebound
Against my breast full bitterly.

And as the spider draws her line,
With labour lost I frame my suit:
The fault is hers, the loss is mine,
Of ill-sown seed such is the fruit.

I fall and see mine own decay,
As he that bears flame in his breast
Forgets for pain to cast away
The thing that breedeth his unrest.