Classic Poem

Accurst be loue and they that trust his train es
He tastes the fruite, whilst others toyle:
He brings the lampe, we lend the oyle:
He sowes distres, we yeeld him soyle:
He wageth warre, we bide the foyle:

Accurst be Loue, and those that trust his traines:
He laies the trap, we seeke the snare:
He threatneth death, we speake him faire:
He coynes deceits, we foster care:
He fauoreth pride, we count it rare.

Accurst be Loue, and those that trust his traines,
He seemeth blinde, yet wounds with Art:
He vowes content, he paies with smart:
He sweares reliefe, yet kils the hart:
He cals for truth, yet scornes desart.
Accurst be loue, and those that trust his traines,
Whose heauen, is hell; whose perfect ioyes, are paines.