Classic Poem

If I dare call Loue Rogue, and Runnagate,
Its like I am resolu'd to loath his loue:
But, so I cal Him and the cause of Hate:
Which to my griefe, in mine owne Soule I proue
I hate as hel, His meer rememberance
Much more the Fauours he hath done to mee:
And hold his loathsom loue the fowl'st mischance
That can befall Men that most haplesse be
It is the Scurge of God to plague Mankind;
The Conflagration of a World of Lust:
The Match whereat Hel-fire it self doth tynd:
The Heate that soonest turnes our Bloud to dust:
And (so I might not seem of bloudy Mind)
Would's Braines were beaten out, as he is blind.