Classic Poem

Go! piteous hart, rased with dedly wo,
Persed with pain, bleding with wondes smart,
Bewaile thy fortune with vaines wan and blo.
O! Fortune, unfrendly, Fortune, unkinde thou art!
To be so cruel and so overthwart,
To suffer me so carefull to endure,
That wher I love best I dare not discure.

One ther is, and ever one shall be,
For whose sake my hart is sore diseased:
For whose love, welcom! disease to me—
I am content so all partis be pleased.
Yet, and God wold, I wold my paine were eased:
But Fortune enforseth me so carefully to endure,
That where I love best I dare not discure.