Classic Poem

Saie you (deere Sweete ) my Lines are labour'd sore?
My Lines , I know, will tell you no such thing:
Though euery Line doth labore more and more,
Till they my Griefe , conceal'd, to light do bring.
But, for my Lines themselues, they labor'd are
With no more paine then paine in pleasure takes:
Sith they my Hart vnburden of much care,
That yet, for want of better yssue akes,
A Labour'd Line's too busie for my Braine,
That is well neere distracted, with much Thought:
Let those Lines laboure, that by Lines do gaine;
For, I haue labour'd Lines, too longe, for nought:
Sith my best labour'd Lines you still reward
With saying, tushe this paines might well be spar'd.