Classic Poem

Sonnett

Nott the disdaynes of her prowde youthly mynde
which laughes at love, and scornes to tread his trace
Nor my desyres that saile againste the winde
nor yett my death, depainted in her face
Nor yett my hope ready to suffer wracke
with broken masts devoyde off sayle or sturne
Nor all the cares that do surcharge my Backe
nor that straunge flame wherwith my vaines do burn
Nor all my teares lett fall to quench that fire
nor all my words which I in Idle waste
Nor others love wherto I coulde aspire
nor that dislyke that I throughe absence taste
Can make me once my fancye to remove
Such is the force of true and Constant love.