Classic Poem

Reade in my face a volume of dispayres,
The wayling Iliads of my tragicke woe,
Drawne with my blood, and printed with my cares,
Wrought by her hand that I have honoured so:
Who whilst I burne, she sings at my soule's wrack,
Looking aloft from Turret of her pride:
There my soule's Tyrant joyes her, in the sack
Of her owne seate, whereof I made her guide
There doe these smoakes that from affliction rise
Serve as an incense to a cruell Dame;
A Sacrifice thrice-gratefull to her eyes,
Because their powre serve to exact the same
Thus ruines shee (to satisfie her will)
The Temple, where her name was honour'd still.