Classic Poem

Sweete fellow whom I sware, such sure affected loue,
As neither weale nor woe nor want can from my minde remoue.
To thee, my fellow sweete, this wofull tale I tell,
To let thee see the darke distresse wherein my minde doth dwel.

On loathêd bed I lay, my lustlesse lims to rest,
Where still I tumble to and fro, to seeke which side were best:
At last I catch a place, where long I cannot lie,
But strange conceits from quiet sleepes, do keep awake mine eie.

The time of yeere me seemes, doth bid me (slouen) rise,
And not from shew of sweete delight to shut my sleepie eies:
But sorrow by and by doth bid me, slaue, lie still,
And slug amonst the wretched souls, whom care doth seek to kil.

For sorow is my spring, which brings forth bitter teares,
The fruits of friendship all forlorne as feeble fancie feares.