Classic Poem

Vaine is the vaunt that runnes beyonde desert,
Small is the praise that proofe will not commend,
Shame is their fall that mounteth fames by arte,
Truth is the gard that writers doth defend;
And trueth I have my naked verse to clothe,
But skill I want this pearelesse peece to praise;
In fairenes who doth passe the dame, in troth,
Whose beautie wrought the Troyans bloudye fraies.
Withal to showe what nature did pretend
In framing her an endlesse fame to finde,
She wrought such meanes as vertue doth commend,
Her gallant shape, with worthy giftes of minde:
What would you more then faire and vertuous both?
That both she is, but search where shee doth live,
(Beyond my reach) report their telling troth,
This modest mayde a matchlesse praise doth give.
Loe! this is al (though further would my will)
I write of her, for want of able skill.