Classic Poem

Yee heavye sighes drawne with my latest breath
pass forth from me and seke that bewtye oute
Make haste I saye yee messengers off deathe
to yelde me hope or putt mee out of doubte
For yff by my desarte or her dysgrace
By destenye or els suspecte untrue
Shee looke on yow with angry frownynge face
which wronge alone I more then death would rue
Then my faynte syghes, when yow that sight do see
fly to the heavens and there attende for mee

But yff that Shee whose owne I am so muche
as that myne owne to bee I have no mighte
Vouchafe to shew her grace and favour such
as that shee will my truth and faith requite
Or yf shee knowe that my poore constant harte
hath fixte so firme on her his whole desyre
As that Shee cannott from my thoughts departe
the onely good whereto I would aspire
Yee modeste syghes the recordes off my paine
with such good hope retorne to me agayne.