Classic Poem

Whatso men sayn,
Love is no pain
To them, certain,
But varians:
For they constrain
Ther hertes to fein,
Ther mouthes to plain,
Ther displesauns.

Which is, indede,
But feined drede,
So God me spede,
And doubleness:
Ther othes to bede,
Ther lives to lede,
And profer mede —
Newfangleness!

For, when they pray,
Ye shall have nay,
Whatso they say —
Beware for shame!
For every day
They waite ther pray
Wherso they may,
And make but game.

Then, semeth me,
Ye may well se
They be so fre
In every place,
It were pite
But they shold be
Begeled, parde,
Withouten grace.

Whatso men sayn,
Love is no pain
To them, certain,
But varians:
For they constrain
Ther hertes to fein,
Ther mouthes to plain,
Ther displesauns.

Which is, indede,
But feined drede,
So God me spede,
And doubleness:
Ther othes to bede,
Ther lives to lede,
And proter mede —
Newtangleness!

For, when they pray,
Ye shall have nay,
Whatso they say —
Beware for shame!
For every day
They waite ther pray
Wherso they may,
And make but game.

Then, semeth me,
Ye may well se
They be so fre
In every place,
It were pite
But they shold be
Begeled, parde,
Withouten grace.