Classic Poem

If mine thy little care,
if thine my restlesse state,
If thine the brunts in brest I beare,
of mine to loue or hate.
Then trie thou shouldst to true,
that falsshood naught did frame;
Though now my smarts thou list not rue,
but makes my griefe thy game.
But out alas I die,
this change is nothing so:
For I in languishe still doe lye,
and fawne on thee my foe.
Who smiles to see my smarte,
and laughes when I doe weepe:
Regarding naught my faythfull harte,
yet from me dost it keepe.
Thus harte to faine vnskilde,
in being whole is broke:
In health is hurte, aliue is kilde,
by dinte of dolors stroke.
And being mine, is stolne,
and led by lyking lust:
Doth leaue the waye of certaine stay,
and leane to tickle trust.
Thou sayst I doe not loue,
would God thou didst not lye:
Such fond affects may nothing moue,
such one thou sayst as I.
The Sages sure were wise,
yet forced now and then:
By flashing flames of C VPIDS fyre,
to shewe themselues like men.
Dame Natures force will shewe,
what so therfore befall:
Tis sure my simple state so lowe,
thou dost mislike with all.
My thoughts doe mounte on hie,
though Fortune seeme but base:
Whose yeelding walles before thee lye,
to reare or downe to rase.