Classic Poem

Am I so mad, to thinke that such a Toy,
As Sorcerie is, should ought prevaile for me,
That witchcraft power hath for to make me joy;
And cause me here, mine absent Mistres see?
 I cannot chuse but thinke all to be tales,
 And that Enchantment little here prevailes.

What though the Sunne is darkened by this skill,
And Moone's removde from out her setled cours;
Wilde beasts made stand, amazed, tame, and still,
And waters turnde from their first wonted sours:
 Yet cannot Art, by force make setled Love,
 From his first Center (where he resteth) move.

The Gods, not men, do rule the inward Hart,
They can appoynt Affection as they please;
Stones, Yearbs, and Words, may usen be by Art;
Yet these the Lovers griefes can smalely ease,
 Not Exorsisms, Spels, Mettals, Planets, Fire ,
 Can alter once the setled firme Desire.

Then Ile with Discontent be satisfied,
And hopeles live in hope, though Hope in vaine:
Resolving all base coynes to abide,
Since I despaire her grace for to obtaine:
 Unhappie I, my case ore desperate,
 No Skill nor cunning can my paine abate.