Classic Poem

The Lover attributeth his curelesse wound to chaunce, by loving long.

Long have I lost my libertie,
Alas! through love (long) have I so.
(Long) have I stoode in jeopardie.
In loving (long) through pyning woe,
Whose constant truth long hath ben tryde,
Though (long) his suit hath ben denyde.

My batterie (long) the brasen wall
The cannon shot doth cleane deface,
The longest trees in time doe fall,
Which (long) before bad Boreas base:
The little brooke in running (long)
Doth turne into a river strong.

Then may it be I loving (long)
My pyning corps by (long) delay,
Can (long) abide the furie strong
Of ghastly death, which (long) doth stay
His lingring stroke to have it so,
That loving (long) should worke my woe.