Classic Poem

How can the ship be guided without Helme,
The storme arising in a troubled Sea?
Needs must the churlish Waves it overwhelme,
Needs must it drowne, and cast away must bee.
 How should I live, and not my life enjoy?
 Feeding on Griefe, what should I taste but Noy?

Ah Cupid thinke upon thy Servant true,
I crave for my Deserts but some reward:
I seeke mine Owne, not more then is my due,
Hate for Goodwill to reape is too too hard.
 If I for Well with Ill am payd againe,
 Had I done ill, what then had bin my paine?

Love with Remembrance lieth in my breast,
All other Thoughts he cancels out of minde:
To thinke whats past I cannot quiet rest,
Yet I in those Conceits strange Joy doe finde,
 Whilst how for her I think All I forsooke,
 And wholly to her Grace my selfe betooke.

My wonted Mirth is turned into Mone,
Because my state is changde and altred quite:
In company I am as One alone,
Whilst what doth Others please, doth me dispite.
 Ah when shall I once from these Plagues be free?
 Never, lesse ALBA Mercie shew to mee.