Classic Poem

Raigne in my thoughts, faire hande, sweete eye, rare voyce,
Posses me whole, my hart's triumvirate:
Yet heavy hart to make so hard a choyse
Of such as spoile thy poore afflicted state
For whilst they strive which shall be Lord of all,
All my poore life by them is troden downe:
They all erect their Trophies on my fall,
And yeeld me nought that gives them their renowne
When backe I looke, I sigh my freedome past,
And waile the state wherein I present stand;
And see my fortune ever like to last,
Finding me rain'd with such a heavie hand.
What can I do but yeeld? And yeeld I doo,
And serve all three, and yet they spoyle me too