Classic Poem

A bon n y No, with smyling looks agane
I wald ye leirnd, sen they so comely ar.
As touching Yes, if ye suld speik so plane
I might reprove you to haif said so far.
Noght that your grant in ony wayis micht gar
Me loth the fruit that Curage ocht to chuse;
Bot I wald only haif you seme to skar
And let me tak it, fenyeing to refuse.

And warsill as it war against your will,
Appeiring angrie tho' ye haif no yre:
For haif, ye heir, is haldin half a fill.
I speik not this as trouing for to tyre,
Bot as the forger when he feeds his fyre
With sparks of water maks it burne more bald
So sueet denyall doubillis bot desyr
And quickins curage fra becomming cald.

Wald ye be made of, ye man mak it nyce
For dainties heir ar delicat and deir
Bot plentie things ar prysde to lytill pryce.
Then tho' ye hearken let no wit ye heir,
Bot look away and len thame ay your eir.
For folou love, they say, and it will flie.
Wald ye be lov'd, this lessone mon ye leir
Flie whylome love, and it will folou thee.