Classic Poem

What no, perdy, ye may be sure!
Thinck not to make me to your lure,
With wordes and chere so contrarieng,
Swete and sowre contrewaing;
To much it were still to endure.

Trouth is trayed where craft is in ure;
But though ye have had my hertes cure,
Trow ye I dote withoute ending?
What no, perdy!
though that with pain I do procure
For to forgett that ons was pure,
Within my hert shall still that thing,
Unstable, unsure, and wavering,
Be in my mynde withoute recure?
What no, perdy!