Classic Poem

Whom love commaundes and holdes as humble thrall
Transformed is each daye to sundry formes
I lyke ytt nott but cannott doo with all
For he that loves must needes endure those stormes
I first of all was chaungde into a harte;
Within whose flancke the murtheringe shafte did lye
Then to a swanne that syngs the dolefull parte,
Which doth presage the tyme that he muste dye
Then to a springe as cleare as cristall glasse
And by myne eyes I dyd unlade the same
The Salamander after that I was
Who loves to bath amydste the burninge flame
But laste of all a flower moste fayre to see
No soner spronge butt quayled on the grounde
And now I fynde my selfe a voice to bee
That to the worlde my mistresse praise muste sownde.