Classic Poem

Deare, if I with guile would guild a true intent,
Heaping flattries that in heart were never meant,
Easely could I then obtaine
What now in vaine I force;
Fals-hood much doth gaine,
Truth yet holds the better course.

Love forbid that through dissembling I should thrive,
Or, in praysing you, my selfe of truth deprive:
Let not your high thoughts debase
A simple truth in me;
Great is beauties grace,
Truth is yet as fayre as shee.

Prayse is but the winde of pride, if it exceedes;
Wealth, pris'd in it selfe, no outward value needes.
Fayre you are, and passing fayre;
You know it, and 'tis true:
Yet let none despayre
But to finde as fayre as you.