Classic Poem

O dearest eyes the lights, and guids of love,
The joyes of Cupid who himself borne blind
To your bright shining doth his triumphs bind
For in your seeing doth his glory move;

How happy are those places wher you prove
Your heavnly beames which makes the sunn to find
Envy, and grudging hee soe long hath shind
For your cleer lights, to mach his beames above.

Butt now, Alas, your sight is heere forbid
And darknes must thes poore lost roomes possess
Soe bee all blessed lights from henceforth hid
That this black deed of darknes have excess,

For why showld heaven afford least light to those
Who for my misery such darcknes chose.