Classic Poem

O! that I might but now as senceles bee
Of my felt paines, as is that pleasant tree
Of the sweet musique thou deere bird dost make,
Who I immagin doth my woes partake,
Yett contrary wee doe owr passions move
Since in sweet notes thou doest thy sorrowes prove.
I, butt in sighs and teares can show I grieve
And those best spent, if worth doe them beeleeve;
Yett thy sweet pleasure makes mee ever finde
That hapines to mee, as love is blinde,
And these thy wrongs in sweetnes to attire
Throwse downe my hopes, to make my woes aspire,
Beesids of mee th'advantage thou hast gott
Thy griefe thou utterest, mine I utter nott,
Yett thus att last wee may agree in one
I mourne for what still is, thou what is gone.