Classic Poem

Like as the Hawke cast from the Faulkners fist,
Freed from the Mew doth (joyfull) take his flight,
Soaring aloft in th'aire as best him list,
Now here, now there, doth finde no small delight,
Enjoying that, which Treasures all doth passe,
(His libertie) where fore he prisoner was.

But when th'acquainted Hollow he doth heare,
And seeth the Lure cast forth him home to traine,
As one obedient full of awfull feare,
He leaves his flight, and backward turnes againe,
Chusing in ancient bonds for to be bound,
Fore faithles to his Lord he will be found:

So (ALBA) though I wanton, otherwhile,
Do runne abrode, and other Ladies court,
Seeking the time with pleasures to beguile,
And oft my selfe with words of course do sport,
Dissembling with Dissemblers cunninglie,
As is the guise, with tongue, with hand, and Eye.

Yet when I thinke upon thy face divine,
Thy Beautie cals me home, straight as a Lure,
All other banishing from Hart of mine,
And in LOVES Bands to thee doth binde me sure.
And since my Faith, and Fates do so ordaine,
I am content thy prisoner to remaine.