Classic Poem

Come, giue me needle, stitch cloth, silke & chaire
y t I may sitt and sigh, and sow & singe
For perfect coollo r s to discribe the aire
a subtile persinge changinge constant thinge
No false stitch will I make, my hart is true
plaine stitche my Sampler is for to c├Áplaine
How men haue tongues of hony, harts of rue.
true tongues & harts are one, men makes them twaine.
Giue me black silk it sable suites my hart
& yet som white though white words do deceiue
No green at all for youth & I must part
Purple & blew, fast loue & faith to weaue.
Mayden no more sleepeless ile goe to bedd
Take all away, the work works in my hedd.