Classic Poem

Who so desires to vewe
the notomye of Care
Within a vexed sowle that feeles
of every greefe a share
The depth off dole wherein
a heavy harte may dwell
The saddeste tale and trewe withall
that ever tongue dyd tell
But read those rufull lynes
and say who wrote the same
Hath spent his pryme and flowringe yers
where Comeforte never came
Whose poore afflycted mynde
so mated with dispighte
Doth loath that I should draw my breath
to lyve withoute delyght
Whose wished welcome death
that happie men doo shunne
Doth shew my pleasures at an ende
before they were begunne
Whose deeds distempred soe
with frowarde dismalle happe
Bewraies my wretched selfe off late
throwne downe from fortunes lapp
And all my Joyes doe mee
as I doe them dysdayne
Thoughe forste content in outewarde shew
makes pleasure of my payne
My base conceyted thoughts
do swelt in secrette shame
And vapored sights that flye from me
betrayes a smoldringe flame
My fruyts that I doo reape
ys Rigor for good wyll
Which shewes my restles body borne
to loose his labor styll
My favors lyke unto
the winters sonny daye
Which doth no soner shyne on us
butt fades assone awaye
My hope so over flowne
by my dispayringe teares
As that save sorrowe and mishappe
none other fruyte it beares
My loathed bedd wherein
I should receave repose
I fynde the garden off my greyfe
where all my torments growes
For when I there do call
the cause thereof to mynde
How many passyons straunge at once
within me doe I fynde
Firste doe I cursse my selfe
and that agayne unsaye
When I recorde her worthye name
for whome I weare awaye
And when I blame my harte
to see how it doth pine
Why say I what have I to doe
my harte is none of myne
Then fealinge how itt beats
within my wounded breste
I sighe and wish of god I coulde
dislodge this wayward geste
And havinge calde on Deathe
his fatall stroke to lende
Nay death saye I; I will nott dye
for then my gryefes will ende
So this conceyte alone
and naughte els doth me ease
That I by lufe mayntain my woes
and so my humor please
All which affirmes to trewe
my some of sorrow such
As some may feele but none but I
content to feele so much
But since of such a lyfe
small hope I see at all
Loe how I have prepard my selfe
agaynste thee fates doo call
My right hande holdes a penne
wherwith I doe indite
My leafte hande holdes a knyfe to draw
oute bloode for me to wryte
And then as one paste cure
that doth the worlde foresake
Here may yow see in theys feaue lynes
the will that I doe make
My bones and body I
bequeath to all unreste
As for my mynde and thoughts shall dwell
where I have loved beste
My heade I give to make
for cares a howse of store
Myne eyes shall spectacles become
to make ech griefe seme more
My faultringe tongue shalbee
the Ecco of my woe
My harte a quiver wherin love
his arrowes shall bestowe
My breste the Sepulchre
wherein desyre shall lye
Till fancies fyre have me consumed
and so my fayth do trye
But when that favors trompe
the yoyfull blaste shall blowe
Then shall yow see hym ryse agayne
that now ys layde full lowe
And Shee this sentence geve
whom I soe truely serve
Content thee Servaunt that I knowe
thow better doeste deserve.