Classic Poem

These few (yet zealous) lines come from my hart,
Dried with my Sighs, and written with my Teares,
I send to her the Author of my smart,
Though (subtill Serpent like) she stop her eares:
Who, more to her I sue, her Grace to gaine,
The more incenst against me doth remaine.

I love not I to pharisie, nor praise
My selfe, for to her owne selfe I appeale,
If I devoted have not bin alwaies,
To do her good, as one that sought her weale
Heavens I forsweare, and utterly abjure,
If that my Faith be tainted or unpure

Mallevolent, Malicious, Planet, Starre,
Was it my Fortune, so for to be borne,
My COTE so true, to have so crosse a BAR,
That for my service thus she should me skorne?
Must my cleere Sunne eclipsed be with Spite?
Must envious Clowdes still seeke to dark my Light?

What remedie? Ile think twas Fortune mine,
(And not her fault) that wrought me all this paine:
Her Crueltie twas not, but Destnie mine,
My selfe, not she, was cause of mine owne bane:
Yet shal the world by this my LOVES MONTHS MIND
A chast Fault, though no Follie in her finde.