Classic Poem

Whyles in this sorte he dyd hys tale pronounce:
Wyth wayward looke she gan hym aye beholde,
And rolyng eyes, that moved to and fro:
Wyth sylent looke discoursying over all,
And forth in rage, at last thus gan she brayde,
Faithlesse, forsworne, thy dame ne Goddes was,
Nor Dardanus begynner of thy race,
But of hard rockes mount Caucase monstrous
Bred thee, and teates of Tyger gave thee sucke.
But what should I dyscemble nowe my chere?
Or me reserve to hope of greater thynges?
Myndes he our teares? or ever moved hys eyen?
Wept he for ruthe? or pytyed he our love?
What shal I set before? or where begynne?
Juno nor Jove wyth just eyes thys beholdes.
There is no fayth, no surety to be found.
Dyd I not hym throne up upon my shore
In neede receyve, and fonded eke invest
Of halfe my realme? hys navy lost, repayre?
From deathes daunger hys felowes eke defende?
Aime, wyth rage and furyes am I dryve.