Classic Poem

My harte I have oftymes bydd the beware
how thow becamste Subjecte to cruell love
But off my words thow never tokeste care
alluringe hope, thy fancye so dyd move
Wherefore my harte, the harme remaynes to me
but thyne the blame, yf I a Captyve bee.

Why saye yow soo what faulte was it off myne
to yeald when I did fynd my selfe betrayede
Nay rather blame those Spialls false of thyne
that ledd me on where bewtye ambushe laide
Those Eyes I meane that brybed were so ofte
with smylinge lookes sent from a murtheringe thought

And call to coumpte the trompett off thy mynde
who did so frendlye sound unto thy foes
That tongue of thyne who traytrouselye enclynde
in parley dyd thy secreets all disclose
And thy ryghte hand (who yf the truthe were known)
dyd ofte subscribe, more yours then myne owne
Why then my harte this laste farewell receave
and yee false lymmes that be betrayede soe
Alas sweete lyfe as yett doo not us leave
for thow perchaunce maiste fynde a frendlye foe
Who off her grace to the may freedome give
in hope thereoff I am content to lyve.