Classic Poem

Oh that desire colde leave to liue that longe hath lookt to die,
Or sadd conceite might hope to see an end of miserye!
Or that the death of my desire wold thinke of my distres,
Or ells sume happie powre of heavne wold send my soule redres;
But oh I crye and so I lye, with sorrow torne a sunder,
That how I liue the lord doth know, it is no litle wunder;
For had all pacience but the powre one passion to appease,
Or cold this feeble fainting harte, but find sume litle ease,
Or cold the smalest peece of thought amidd my greatest greif,
But tell me once but of a hope how hart might have releif;
Then might I liue now must I die or suche a deathe endure
As is the corzy of the care that neuer can haue cure.

But yow that rede this ruifull verse, consider of his care,
Who only knowes the cruell woes wher comfortes neuer are;
And yow that see thes trickling teares distilling downe thes eyes
Imagine of the dying life that living euer dyes;
And yow that here thes sobbing sighes that from this hart ascend,
Diuine vpon the pangs of death wher passions neuer end;
But if no reason can conceiue the ruine of my thought,
Nor deepest wisdome will discerne what hath my sorrow wrought,
Nor pittie can p'cure a meane to mittigate my paine,
But sorrow still must soke the hart and venime euery vaine
If nether hope, nor happe nor heavne nor fortune fate, nor friend,
Will once releive release cutt of nor cause one sorrow end:
What then can rest for me poore wretch but thus to lye and crye,
In heavene in heavne must be my life for in the world I dye.