Classic Poem

My werye ghooste charged with to highe desyre
why doest thow not unto the Heaven make haste
My pynynge breste whom fancye setts on fyre
Why doste thow not, with speed to Syndars waste
My heavy Eyes that to to much have seene
Why doo yow not become to flowinge springes
My faultringe tounge that to to slow hath bene
Frame such a note as doth the Swanne that singes
Oh sweete yff gaynde, But els oh bitter Care
Oh doubtfull joy, But oh to certaine paine
Oh desteny that makest me this to dare
Why wilt thow yeald my enterpryses vaine
Thow Archer blinde who dyd disclose thine eyes
That thow of me couldst take such perfect viewe
Thow love that canst the prowdest myndes surpryse
Shew not thy force, where thow mayste sone subdue
Oh angles face, but harte more harde then Stone
Yf yow disdaine to knowe my Cause of mone.