Classic Poem

This wrangling hate seemeth to be but a passion proceeding of Plasmos passing love; the which digested, made his affection more perfect: neverthelesse, this following invention wrayeth the evil fortunes of rash beleefe and cholericke revenge, after which (for the most) insueth repentaunce: yet for that the sonet it selfe foresheweth but a fitt of disquiet minde, by love occasioned, it shall passe for mee without any preface.
Fowle fall thee, false suspect, so thrive, thou jelous thought,
Woe worth you both, you reard the hate that all my harme hath wrought:
You did envie my hap when late I liv'de in joy:
You slaunder forg'd, you mov'd mistrust, you made my sovereigne coy.
Shee, wronged saunce offence, good reason hath to hate,
But you no cause of filthie strife twixt friends to set debate;
But sith my heart did yeeld such motions to beleeve,
Both heart, head, and every veine, with fretting thoughtes to greeve:
First, love, renue thy force my joyes for to consume,
And when desire hath blowen the cooles till all my fancies fume,
Then conscience guilt detect my follies day and houre,
And base desert exile remorse , see dreade , my sweete, thou soure
Disdaine , persuade my minde: my ladies passing love
Is chaungd to scorne, from scorne to hate, from hate revenge to prove.
Tormenting passions eake abate my pride in showe,
Then scaulding sighes present my state unto my friendly foe:
Which when shee once hath seene, with wrecke of my delight,
Despaire, end me dole with death, in my sweete mistresse sight.
But least she beare the blame of this my bloudy hand,
I crave upon my timelesse tumbe this epitaphe may stand.

Loe! heare doth lie his corps ,
Himselfe for woe who slue,
That jelous thoughts his lady blamde,
She ever living true.