Classic Poem

What rage is this? what furour of what kynd?
What powre, what plage, doth wery thus my mynd?
Within my bons to rancle is assind
What poyson, plesant swete?

Lo, se myn iyes swell with contynuall terys;
The body still away sleples it weris;
My fode nothing my faintyng strenght reperis,
Nor doth my lyms sustayne.

In diepe wid wound the dedly strok doth torne
To curid skarre that never shalle retorne.
Go to, tryumphe, rejoyse thy goodly torne,
Thi frend thow dost opresse.

Opresse thou dost, and hast off hym no cure;
Nor yett my plaint no pitie can procure,
Fiers tygre fell, hard rok withowt recure,
Cruell rebell to love!

Ons may thou love, never belovffd agayne;
So love thou still and not thy love obttayne;
So wrathfull love with spites of just disdayne
May thret thy cruell hert.