Classic Poem

Trust not, sweet soule, those curled waues of gold,
With gentle tides which on your temples flow,
Nor temples spread with flackes of virgine snow,
Nor snow of cheekes with Tyrian graine enroll'd;
Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe,
When first I did their burning rayes beholde,
Nor voyce, whose sounds more strange effects doe show
Than of the Thracian harper haue beene tolde.
Looke to this dying lillie, fading rose,
Darke hyacinthe, of late whose blushing beames
Made all the neighbouring herbes and grasse reioyce,
And thinke how litle is 'twixt life's extreames:
The cruell tyrant that did kill those flowrs,
Shall once, aye mee! not spare that spring of yours.