Classic Poem

Some wits there be, which lyke my method well,
And say my verse runnes in a lofty vayne,
Some say I have a passing pleasing straine,
Some say that in my humor I excell.

Some, who reach not the height of my conceite,
They say, (as Poets doe) I use to fayne,
And in bare words paynt out my passions payne.
Thus sundry men, their sundry minds repeate.

I passe not I how men affected be,
Nor who commend or discommend my verse,
It pleaseth me if I my plaints rehearse,
And in my lynes if shee my love may see.
I prove my verse autentique still in thys,
Who writes my Mistres praise, can never write amisse.