Classic Poem

O Haire, faire haire, some of the golden threeds
Of vich loue veues the nets that passion breeds
Vher me like sillie bird he doth retaine,
And onlie death can make me free againe;
Ah, I yow loue, embrasse, kisse, and adore,
For that ye schadow did that face before;
That face so ful of beautie, grace, and loue,
That it hath jalous made heauen's quier aboue:
To yow I'l tel my secret thochts and grief,
Since sche, deare sche, can graunt me no reliefe.
Vhile me from her foul traitour absence binds,
Vitnesse, sueet haire, vith me, how loue me blinds;
For vhen I should seeke vhat his force restraines,
I foolish beare about his nets and chaines.