Classic Poem

Faine would I take of quiet sleepe the Say,
My wearied Corse with ease for to delight,
But I no wished rest can finde by Day,
Nor slumber sweetely in my bed by Night.
 No rest I wretched man as yet can take,
 My woes are such, as force me still to wake.

My Trueth is measured by my Fortune hard,
And (I poore soule) Unfaithfull judged am,
Because I seeme Unhappie ; and am bard
From all good Chance: (Gainst right) I beare the blame,
 But willingly; (since she doth will) I shall,
 Whose Absence turnes my Hony into Gaule.

Yet faine I slumber would, though but a while;
But if I cannot with that Fode be fed,
I will embrace (the time for to beguile)
Such golden Thoughts as are within my head.
 Golden indeede, Golde Thoughts of such a one,
 As I prefer fore Golde, though she a Stone .

But sleepe, or die, then, dye, thou canst not sleepe,
For thee to sleepe it is impossibell,
To thinke what's past, broade waking will thee keepe:
Which thou must still conceale, not any tell.
 My comfort's this, that waking as I die,
 I see my Love in Thought, though not with eye.