Classic Poem

Decayde I fynde my favor and my fate
my hope thrown downe from heyght of my desire
And truthe that shoulde have bettred my estate
and made my love to wisshed Joyes asspire
Is undermynde with tongues of foule dyspighte
This frawde cann fynde a waye to master right

My tongue no more shall putt my penn to payne
to blaze in booteles words my discontented mynde
Since thow my Harte haste sighde so longe in vayne
that shall suffice to shew who was unkinde
And for good proofe I still contynewe true
With my laste hope I bydd my Joyes adue

Yett as the Chylde correctede for hys blame
muste kisse of force the Rodd that made hym smarte
So my laste lynes for me doo yow the same
kisse those fayre hands that murthred have my harte
But saye withall ytt was a cruell deede
To scorne the harte that for hyr sake dyd bleede