Classic Poem

Spite of his spite, which that in vain
Doth seek to force my fantasy,
I am professed for loss or gain
To be thine own assuredly
Wherefore let my father spite and spurn,
My fantasy will never turn.

Although my father of busy wit
Doth bable still, I care not tho;
I have no fear, nor yet will flit,
As doth the water to and fro.

For I am set and will not swerve,
Whom spiteful speech removeth nought.
And since that I thy grace deserve,
I count it is not dearly bought.

This minion here, this mincing trull,
Doth please me more a thousand fold
Than all the earth that is so full
Of precious stones, silver and gold.

Whatsoever I did, it was for her sake,
It was for her love, and only pleasure;
I count it no labour such labour to take,
In getting me so high a treasure.
Wherefore let my father spite and spurn,
My fantasy will never turn.