Classic Poem

Raigne in my thoughts faire hand, sweete eye, rare voice,
Possesse me whole, my hearts triumvirate:
Yet heauy heart to make so hard a choise,
Of such as spoile thy poore afflicted state.
For whilst they striue which shall be Lord of all,
All my poore life by them is troden downe;
They all erect their Trophies on my fall,
And yeeld me nought that giues them their renowne.
When backe I looke, I sigh my freedome past,
And waile the state wherein I present stand:
And see my fortune euer like to last,
Finding me rain'd with such a heauy hand.
What can I do but yeeld? and yeeld I doo,
And serue all three, and yet they spoile me too.