Classic Poem

I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would reede
Lynes of delight, whereon her youth might smyle:
Flowers have a tyme before they come to seed,
And shee is young and now must sport the while.
Ah sport (sweet Maide) in season of these yeeres,
And learne to gather flowers before they wither:
And where the sweetest blossoms first appeares,
Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.
Lighten forth smyles to cleere the clowded ayre,
And calme the tempest which my sighes do rayse:
Pittie and smiles doe best become the faire,
Pittie and smiles shall yeeld thee lasting praise
I hope to say, when all my griefes are gone,
Happie the hart that sigh'd for such a one.