Classic Poem

Like as the dove which seeled-up doth fly,
Is neither freed, nor yet to service bound,
But hopes to gain some help by mounting high
Till want of force doth force her fall to ground;
Right so my mind, caught by his guiding eye
And thence cast off, where his sweet hurt he found,
Hath neither leave to live, nor doom to die,
Nor held in ill, nor suffered to be sound,
But with his wings of fancies up he goes
To high conceits whose fruits are oft but small,
Till wounded, blind, and wearied spirits lose
Both force to fly and knowledge where to fall.
O happy dove, if she no bondage tried;
More happy I, might I in bondage bide.