Classic Poem

O younge freshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love upgroweth with your age,
Repaireth home from worldly vanity,
And of your heart upcasteth the visage
To thilke God that after his image
You made, and thinketh all n'is but a fair
This world, and passeth soon as flowers fair.

And loveth him, the which that right for love
Upon a cross, our soules for to buy,
First starf, and rose, and sit in heaven above;
For he n'ill falsen no wight, dare I say,
That will his heart all wholly on him lay.
And since he best to love is, and most meek,
What needeth feigned loves for to seek?