Classic Poem

The gentell Season of the yeare
hath made the bloomynge braunch appeare
and beautyfied the landes with flowers
The ayre doth savor with delyghte
the heavens doo smyle to see the syghte
and yett myne eyes augment theyr showers

The meddowes mantled all with greene
the tremblinge leaves have clothed the treene
the Byrdes with feathars newe doo synge
But I poore Sowle whom wronge doth wrack
attyre my selfe in moornynge black
whose leafe doth fall amydste his sprynge

And as wee see the Scarlett rose
in thys sweete pryme his budd dysclose
whose hue ys with the Sonne revyvde
So in this Apriell off myne age
my lyvely colore doth asswage
because my sooneshyne ys depryvde

My harte that wonted was off yore
lyghte as the wynd to raunge and sore
in every place where beautye spryngs
Now onely hovers over yow
even as a Byrde thats taken newe
and flutters but with clypped wyngs

When all men els are bent to sporte
then pensyve I alone resorte
into some sollytarye walke
As doth the dolefull turtull Dove
who havynge loste her faithfull love
sytts moornynge on some withred stalke

There to my selfe doo I recoumpte
how farr my woes my Joyes surmounte
how love requiteth me with hate
how all my pleasures ende in payne
how happ doth shewe my hope but vaine
how fortune frownes uppon my State

And in this moode chargd with dispayre
with vapored syghes I dymme the ayre
and to the gods make this requeste
That by the endinge off my lyfe
I may have truce with this straunge strife
and bringe my Soule to better reste.