Classic Poem

Alas, poor man, what hap have I
That must forbear that I love best!
I trow it be my destiny,
Never to live in quiet rest.

No wonder is though I complain,
Not without cause ye may be sure:
I seek for that I cannot attain,
Which is my mortal displeasure.

Alas, poor heart, as in this case
With pensive plaint thou art opprest,
Unwise thou were to desire place
Whereas another is possest.

Do what I can to ease thy smart,
Thou wilt not lett to love her still.
Hers and not mine I see thou art:
Let her do by thee as she will.

A carefull carcass full of pain
Now hast thou left to mourn for thee.
The heart once gone, the body is slain:
That ever I saw her, woe is me!

Mine eye, alas, was cause of this,
Which her to see had never his fill;
To me that sight full bitter is,
In recompense of my goodwill.

She that I serve all other above
Hath paid my hire, as ye may see.
I was unhappy, and that I prove,
To love above my poor degree.