Classic Poem

Good wyll put forth my Pen in haste,
and made me bolde to craue:
And Loue lay on me sore to seeke,
that I suppose you haue.
Pleasure drew forth my doubtfull care,
and helde my hande aright:
And Vse transported like a guyde,
the vaine desyre I wright.
Hope flattered so these troubled thoughtes,
that comforte of the paine:
Would force me to appose thy pen,
with fansies of the braine.
Slowe of it selfe my little skill,
but that thy truth profest:
Will pardon bothe my light offence,
and graunt this poore request.
To tell if ayre maye alter greese,
or where like luck betide:
Thy selfe, that vnder Country Hauens,
doste seeke thy selfe to hide.
And if loue bee, what thing it is,
if not, what moues my paine:
Good N EDHAM wryte, or come in haste,
and I shall wryte againe.