Classic Poem

The kindled sparkes of fyre, that Fancies motions moue,
Do force me feele, though I ne see, nor know not what is loue.
Desyre on ruth doth runne, imbracing griefe for game,
Whose ioye is like the Flies delight, that fries amid the flame.
It yeelds and mercy craues, yet wots not who makes warres,
The only thing it sees or knowes, is one that loue preferres.