Classic Poem

Of thee, deere dame, faine would I learne the trueth,
If hee that bringes the innocent in band,
Ar (so betrayde) who slayeth him saunce ruth,
Is thought herein to have the bloudiest hand?
If hee that doth the faultlesse first betray,
Then, cruell, note the wordes that I shall say.

I am the man that longe can hardly live
You with your scorne betrayde mee to despaire,
Then though my hand the deadly wound do give,
The murtherer it wilbe said you are;
But if you shame such fowle report to prove,
Now yeeld, sweete wench, or never graunt to love.

Behold the blade that shall confirme my faith!
My woes consent in wanton yeares to die:
I live to heare but what your aunsweare faith,
Once lapt therein my life or death doth lie;
For trust mee now, I (wretched) have decreede
To winne your love, or else to die with speede.