When those renoumed noble Peres of Greece, <br />thrugh stubborn pride amongst the[m]selues did iar <br />forgetfull of the famous golden fleece, <br />then Orpheus with his harp theyr strife did bar. <br />But this continuall cruell ciuill warre, <br />the which my selfe against my selfe doe make: <br />whilest my weak powres of passions warreid arre. <br />no skill can stint nor reason can aslake. <br />But when in hand my tunelesse harp I take, <br />then doe I more augment my foes despight: <br />and griefe renew, and passions doe awake, <br />to battaile fresh against my selfe to fight. <br />Mongst whome the more I seeke to settle peace, <br />the more I fynd their malice to increace.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xliiii/
