Classic Poem

CCXLII

Who would have ever thought
A heart that was so set
To have such wrong me wrought
Or to be counterfeit?
But who that trusteth most
Is like to pay the cost.

I must of force, God wot,
This painful life sustain.
And yet I can know not
The chief cause of my pain.
This is a strange disease
To serve and never please.

I must of force endure
This draught drawn awry,
For I am fast and sure
To have the mate thereby.
But note I will this text
To draw better the next.