Classic Poem

VIII
It may be good, like it who list,
But I do doubt who can me blame:
For oft assured, yet have I mist,
And now again I fear the same.
The windy words, the eyes' quaint game,
Of sudden change make me aghast:
For dread to fall I stand not fast.

Alas, I tread an endless maze
That seek to accord two contraries:
And hope still and nothing hase
Imprisoned in liberties.
As one unheard, and still that cries;
Always thirsty, and yet nothing I taste;
For dread to fall I stand not fast.

Assured, I doubt I be not sure;
And should I trust to such surety,
That oft hath put the proof in ure
And never hath found it trusty?
Nay, sir, in faith it were great folly.
And yet my life thus I do waste:
For dread to fall I stand not fast.