Classic Poem

I fynde no peace and all my warr is done,
I fere and hope, I burne and freise like yse;
I fley above the wynde yet can I not arrise,
And noght I have and all the worold I seson.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not, yet can I scape nowise;
Nor letteth me lyve nor dye at my devise,
And yet of deth it gyveth me occasion.
Withoute Iyen, I se, and withoute tong I plain,
I desire to perisshe, and yet I aske helthe,
I love an othre, and thus I hate my self,
I fede me in sorrowe and laughe in all my pain,
Likewise displeaseth me boeth deth and lyffe,
And my delite is causer of this stryff.