Classic Poem

Looke in my griefes, and blame me not to mourne,
From care to care that leades a life so bad;
Th'Orphan of Fortune, borne to be her scorne,
Whose clouded brow doth make my daies so sad.
Long are their nights whose cares do neuer sleepe,
Lothsome their daies, whom no sun euer ioyd,
Th'impression of her eyes do pearce so deepe,
That thus I liue both day and night annoyd.
But since the sweetest roote yeelds fruite so sowre,
Her praise from my complaint I may not part:
I loue th'effect the cause being of this powre,
Ile praise her face, and blame her flinty heart.
Whilst we both make the world admire at vs,
Her for disdaine, and me for louing thus.