Classic Poem

How oft have I, my dere and cruell foo,
With those your Iyes for to get peace and truyse,
Profferd you myn hert, but you do not use
Emong so high thinges to cast your mynde so lowe.
Yf any othre loke for it, as ye trowe,
There vayn weke hope doeth greately theim abuse;
And thus I disdain that that ye refuse;
It was ones myn: it can no more be so.
Yf I then it chase, nor it in you can fynde
In this exile no manner of comfort,
Nor lyve allone, nor where he is called resort,
He may wander from his naturall kynd.
So shall it be great hurt unto us twayn,
And yours the losse and myn the dedly pain.