Classic Poem

The scourge of life, and death's extreme disgrace,
The smoke of hell, the monster called Pain,
Long shamed to be accursed in every place
By them who of his rude resort complain,
Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught
His ugly ill in others' good to hide,
Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wrought
As treasure-house where her best gifts abide.
And so, by privilege of sacred seat,
A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns,
He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great,
Within her beams wrapping his cruel stains.
Ah, saucy Pain, let not thy error last;
More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.