Classic Poem

Ah, poore Loue, whi dost thou liue,
Thus to se thy seruice lost?
Ife she will no comforte geue,
Make an end, yeald vp the goaste;
That she may at lengthe aproue
That she hardlye long beleued,
That the harte will dye for loue
That is not in tyme relieued.
Ohe that euer I was borne,
Seruice so to be refused,
Faythfull loue to be foreborne!
Neuer loue was so abused.
But, swet Loue, be still a whylle;
She that hurte thee, Loue, maye healle thee;
Sweet, I see within her smylle
More than reason can reueale thee.
For, thoughe she be riche and fayre,
Yet she is bothe wise and kynde,
And therefore do thou not despayre,
But thy faythe may fancy fynde.
Yet, allthoughe she be a quene,
That maye suche a snake despyse,
Yet, withe sylence all vnseene,
Runn and hide thee in her eyes:
Where if she will let thee dye,
Yet at latest gaspe of breathe,
Saye that in a ladye's eye
Loue both tooke his lyfe and deathe.