Classic Poem

Of love fayne woolde I frame my style
yett nott to flatter nor beguyle
For they that so theyr woords doo fyle
and use a glosinge kinde of vayne
Feele nott in deede that force of love
Nor yett so many torments prove
As from theyr brestes; your hartes to move
They forced sobbes and sorrowes fayne

Their careles truste their fayned awe
Is butt as fire thats made off strawe
Their teares they shedd and sighes they drawe
Are naughte butt winds and Apryll showers
Their dolefull songes off rare devyce
Is nothinge els butt to entyce
And fayne a flame in frosen Ise
And cower rotten weedes with flowers

By your faire lookes they will devyse
To represent the loftye Skies
And frame too starres of your too eyes
Compare your smyles to shininge dayes
Your hayres to braunches of the Sunne
Your frownes to clowdes that over runne
Your weepinge teares throughe griefe begunne
To heavenly dewe that heate delayes

Your favours sugred they doo call
Your rygors are to them as gall
And so from fortunes lappe they fall
Iff your displeasure once they taste
Then will they so their passions paynte
As that the Rockes shall rue theyr playnte
The Beastes; with pittye bee attaynte
To see them so in woe to waste

A worlde it is to heare their fictions
One makes his heaven of his affections
Another hell of his Straunge passions
And this they shewe their sundry vaines
One vaunts his Mistres worthie mynde
Others her rare and noble kinde
And some the bewtye that doth blynde
Butt vertu allways rules the raynes

Somtymes your love they will admyre
The onely good that they desire
Wherto iff once they might aspire
(O gods) their happe coulde not be tould
Butt then againe the leaste dysgrace
Will make them scorne a lovers case
And in dispight say to your face
That all that glisters, is nott golde

Butt ladyes yow that heare the same
Do fynde therin more sporte and game
Then they of love doo feele the flame
And therefore smale remorce doo take
For when their passions yow detecte
More in conceyte then in effect
Their suytes and service yow neglecte
And slender recompence doo make

In good olde tymes how bleste were theye
That neede nott studie what to saye
Nor forge devyses to Betraye
The harts of those whom they did seeke
Then hadd not love the skill nor arte
To counterfayte eache kinde off parte
The tongue dyd plainly shew the harte
And men dyd francklye leave, or like.

Woo worthe those heades that were so fyne
With paintede shewes to bleare the eyne
And make off mortall thyngs devyne
Woo worth their false deceitfull harts
For me I cannott reache soe hye
Butt still my truth and faith shall trye
That I am yours untill I dye
And doo by me, by my desarts.

And as for yow this will I saye
That I knowe none alyfe this daye
That cann my lykinge wynn awaye
From yow: for bewty and good grace
And for my selfe I vowe and sweare
That neither gaine nor losse nor feare
Nor tyme itt selfe awaye shall weare
The honour that I owe your face.

Butt as for such as will pretende
To be to yow a firmer frynde
And for your sake their lyves will ende
Yow may beleve them yff yow will
But I esteeme those wordes as wynde
For in my selfe in truthe I fynde
That I am rather off this mynde
To lyve to love and serve yow still.