Classic Poem

When will my May come, that I may embrace thee?
When will the hower be of my soules joying?
Why dost thou seeke in mirth still to disgrace mee?
Whose mirth's my health, whose griefe's my hearts annoying:
Thy bane my bale, thy blisse my blessedness,
Thy ill my hell, thy weale my welfare is.

Thus doo I honour thee that I love thee so,
And love thee so, that so do honour thee
Much more than anie mortall man doth know,
Or can discerne by love or jealozie:
But if that thou disdainst my loving ever,
Oh happie I, if I had loved never!