Classic Poem

If under your fair looks so sweete in shewe
there be not hydd a harte more harde then steele
Yow cannot chuse but rue on me, to knowe
what gryefe by absence from your face I feele
And yet in yow how may such ruthe aryse
when to your sighte, in me appeares no paine
For when I come to see those happye Eyes
their gladesome looks doo me revyve againe
Unkindlye Care my fancye doth foregoe
the vapored sighes haunt not my pinede breste
No brackish teares my face doth overflowe
but am to see, as one that lyvede in reste
This double harme your eye doth me procure
for firste it wounds me with a mortall stroake
And when I woold unfolde, what I endure
itt charmes me so that I my suffraunce cloake
Loe this yow see, unhappie fate have I
in shew to lyve, and yett in deede to dye.