Classic Poem

If mortall men so grevous paynes would taste
to lenghten lyfe, which wee so sweet do counte
Then how greate paines, that heavie harte doth waste
whose gryps so farr the feare of death surmounte
As that the mynde doth yelde the Body stryfe
to leave the prisone of a loathsome lyfe

Can dampned Sowles endure a greater rage
than he that cloaks the cause off his unreste
From those that coulde such fervent heats asswage
as styll doo burne yett not consume the breste
Oh torment straunge, and cureles sore to heale
when syckelye men their owne disease conceale

And then to shunne the cause off such an woe
as wounded Deere that stroken to the quicke
Too late in vayne doth fly the murdringe Bowe
but nott the shafte that in his syde doth sticke
So booteles I from my delight retyre
and beare with me the darte off deepe desire

Whose poisoned head my growinge greefs procure
thoughe wronge I doo to tearme the same a griefe
Synce for your sake itt is that I endure
in that respecte my hope disdaynes relyefe
Thus lyngringe hope doth still my cares renewe
traytore to me, But to my mistres trewe.