Classic Poem

Phoebe sate,
Sweet she sate,
Sweet sate Phoebe when I saw her,
White her brow,
Coy her eye;
Brow and eye, how much you please me!
Words I spent,
Sighs I sent,
Sighs and words could never draw her,
Oh my Love,
Thou art lost,
Since no sight could ever ease thee.

Phoebe sat
By a Fount,
Sitting by a Fount I spide her,
Sweet her touch,
Rare her voyce:
Touch and voice, what may distaine you?
As she sung,
I did sigh,
And by sighs whilst that I tride her,
Oh mine eyes
You did loose,
Her first sight whose want did pain you.

Phoebes flockes,
White as wooll,
Yet were Phoebes locks more whiter.
Phoebes eyes,
Dovelike mild,
Dovelike eyes, both mild and cruell,
Montan sweares,
In your lampes
He will die for to delight her,
Phoebe yeeld,
Or I die:
Shall true hearts be fancies fuell?