Classic Poem

The sparkes of loue within my brest, doe daylie so increase,
That euery vain on fyre is set, which none but thou mayst cease.
So that in thee consists my woe, in thee likewise my wealth,
In thee with speede to hast my death, in thee to giue me health,
O pittie then his restlesse state, that yeeldes him to thy will,
Sithe loe in thee it wholy lyes, my life to saue or spill.
That neyther doe I glose or faine, I I OVE to witnesse call,
Who knows the heat of fired harts, when they to loue are thrall.
And shall I thus a wofull Wight, in rigor still remayne?
Shal such as smale good wil me beare, thy grace fr├Á me restrayne?
Shall false perswation so preuaile, to let our wished ioye?
Shall fayth and troth for their rewarde, reape naught but sharpe annoy?
Or else shal want of pyning welth, retract my iust desier.
Do not the Gods at pleasure theirs, the lowe estate raise higher?
Is not the worlde and all therein, at their disposing still?
Doth it not rest in them to giue, and take from whom they will.
No recklesse race then shalt thou runne, ne follow vaine delight,
In yeelding help to cure his harme, that holds thee dearst in sight.
Ne yet from tip of Fortunes wheele, thou shalt ne slide nor swarue,
Such hope I haue of better hap, the Fates do yet resarue.
Thy person, not thy pelfe, is all I wishe and craue,
Which more I vowe I do esteeme, then heaps of coyne to haue.
The greatest Princes aye by proofe, lead not the pleasantst lyfe,
Nor euery maide that maryeth welth, becoms the happiest wyfe.