Classic Poem

Thei I singe and murthes make,
It is not I wolde.

Min owne dere lady fair and free,
I pray you in herte ye ruwen on me,
For all my liking is on thee
Whan I on you beholde.

Wer we two togadere beine,
Thou might me lisse of my peine;
I am agast, it wol not geine—
Min herte falleth colde.

Myself I wol min arnde bede,
The better, I hope, for to spede;
Non so well may do min nede—
A womman so me tolde.