Classic Poem

I rather far be fast nor frie
Albeit I micht my mynd remove;
My maistres hes a man of me
That lothis of every thing bot love.
What can a man desyre?
What can a man requyre?
Bot tym sall caus him tyre
And let it be, —
Except that fervent fyre
Of burning love impyre:
Hope heghts me sik a hyre
I rather far be fast nor frie.

But love — what wer bot sturt or stryfe?
But love — what kyndnes culd indure?
But love — hou lothsum war our lyfe!
But love — whar of suld we be sure?
But love — whair wer delyt?
But love — what bot despyt?
But love — what wer perfyt?
Sure suld we sie.
But love — what war to wryt?
But love — wha culd indyt?
No — nothing worth a myte
I rather far be fast nor frie.
Love maks men galyard in thair geir
Love maks a man a martial mynd
Love maks a man no fortun feir
Love changes natur contrare kynd.
Love maks a couard kene
Love maks the clubbit clene
Love maks the niggard bene
That — who bot he?
Love maks a man I mene
Mair semely to be sene,
Love keeps ay curage grene:
I rather far be fast nor frie.

Love can not be, bot from above
Whilk halds the hairt so quik in heit
Fy on that freik that can not love
He hes not worth a sponk of spreit.
Remember ony man
In chronikle ye can
That ever worship wan
But love, let sie,
And once that rink he ran,
Sen this is treu why than
I end as I began:
I rather far be fast nor frie.