Classic Poem

Fy tedious Hope, why doe you still rebell?
Is itt nott yett enough you flatterd mee?
Butt cuningly you seeke to use a spell
How to beetray, must thes your trophies bee?

I look'd from you farr sweeter fruite to see
Butt blasted were your blossoms when they fell,
And those delights expected from hands free
Wither'd, and dead, and what seem'd bliss proves Hell.

Noe towne was wunn by a more plotted slight
Then I by you, who may my fortune write
In embers of that fire which ruind mee,

Thus Hope, your faulshood calls you to bee tride
You're loth I see the triall to abide;
Prove true att last, and gaine your liberty.