Classic Poem

What doom is this, I fain would know,
That deemeth by all contraries:
What God, whether He be high or low,
Now would I learn some warranties.
Some say the blinded God above,
Is He that worketh all by love,
But He that stirreth strife, the truth to tell,
I always feel, but know not well.

Some say Alectis with her mates
Are they which breedeth all anoy,
Who sit like hags in hellish gates,
And seek still whom they may destroy.
Some say again 'tis destiny,


But how it comes, or what it is,
I let it pass before I miss.

Despite doth always work my woe,
And hap as yet holds hardly still;
For fear I set my friendship so,
And think again to reap good will.
I do but strive against the wind,
For more I seek, the less I find,
And where I seek most for to please
There find I always my disease.

And thus I love, and do reap still
Nothing but hate for my good will.