Classic Poem

Thy bewtie is the sunne which guides my day,
And with his beames to my worldes life geues light,
With whose sweet fauour all my fancies play,
And as byrdes singing still inchant my sight
But when I seeke to get my loues cheefe pleasure,
Her frownes are like the night ledde by the lampe
Of Phoebes chast desiers, whilest without leasure
Graces like starres through all her face encampe:
Then all my fancies byrdes lye whisht for feare,
Soone as her frownes procure there shadie sorrow
Sauing mine hart, which secret shot doth beare
And nature from the Nightingall doth borrow:
Which from lamentes, because he will not rest
Hath loues thorne prickle pointed at his brest.