Classic Poem

Iff I were giv'n to mirthe 't'wowld bee more cross
Thus to bee robbed of my chiefest joy;
Butt silently I beare my greatest loss
Who's us'd to sorrow, griefe will nott destroy;

Nor can I as those pleasant witts injoy
My owne fram'd words, which I account the dross
Of purer thoughts, or recken them as moss
While they (witt sick) them selves to breath imploy,

Alas, think I, your plenty shewes your want,
For wher most feeling is, words are more scant,
Yett pardon mee, Live, and your pleasure take,

Grudg nott, if I neglected, envy show
'T'is nott to you that I dislike doe owe
Butt crost my self, wish some like mee to make.