Classic Poem

Pleading for pitie to my mistresse eyes,
Vrging on dutie fauours as desartes,
Complaining mine hid flames, and secret smartes,
She with disdaynefull grace, in iest replyes:
Her eyes were neuer made mans enemies:
Then me with my conceipt she ouerthwartes,
Vrging my fancie, which vayne thoughtes impartes
To be the causer of mine iniuries,
Saying I am not vext as I complained,
How melancholye bred this light conceipt:
Hard-harted mistresse, canst thou thinke I fayned?
That I with fancies vayne vayne woes repeate?
Ah no! for though thine eyes none else offend,
Yet by thine eyes, and noes, my woes want end.