Classic Poem

ASOLEMNE FANCY.

Sorrow in my heart breedeth
A cocatrices neast,
Where euery young bird feedeth
Vpon my Hearts vnrest

Where euery pecke they giue mee
(Which euery houre they doe)
Vnto such paine they driue mee
I knowe not what to doe.

Oh, broode vnhapp'ly hatched
Of such a cursed kinde,
Where Death and Sorrowe matched
Liue, but to kill the minde.

Wordes torments are but trifles
That but conceits confounde;
And Natures griefes but nifles
Vnto the Spirits wounde.

They are but Cares good morrowes
That passions can declare;
While my Hearts inward sorrowes
Are all without compare.

Fortune, she seekes to sweare mee
To all may discontent mee;
Yet sayes, she doth forbeare mee,
She doth no more torment mee

Beauty she doth retaine mee
In scarce a fauours tittle;
And though she doe disdeigne mee,
She thinkes my griefe too little

Loue falles into a laughing
At Reasons little good,
While Sorrow, with her quaffing,
Is drunke with my heart blood

But let her drinke and spare not
Vntill my heart be dry;
And let Love laugh, I care not;
My hope is I shall dy.

And Death shall only tell
My froward fortunes fashion
That nearest vnto hell
Was found the Lovers passion.