Classic Poem

For want I will in woe I plain,
Under colour of soberness;
Renewing with my suit my pain,
My wanhope with your steadfastness.
Awake therefore of gentleness;
Regard, at length, I you require,
The swelting pains of my desire.

Betimes who giveth willingly,
Redoubled thanks aye doth deserve;
And I, that sue unfeignedly
In fruitless hope, alas, do sterve.
How great my cause is for to swerve,
And yet how steadfast is my suit,
Lo, here ye see: where is the fruit?

As hound that hath his keeper lost,
Seek I your presence to obtain,
In which my heart delighteth most,
And shall delight though I be slain.
You may release my band of pain;
Loose then the care that makes me cry
For what of help, or else I die.

I die, though not incontinent,
By process yet consumingly
As waste of fire which doth relent,
If you as wilful will deny.
Wherefore cease of such cruelty,
And take me wholly in your grace,
Which lacketh will to change his place.