Classic Poem

Could my poore hart whole worlds of toungs employ,
The greifes it ownes that number would out goe;
Its so enured to greife, s' estranged from joy,
That it knows not how it releife should know.
Discurteous facts are cor'sives to true hearts,
And those are pronest to dispayring smarts.

Noe caution, thought, nor alteration can
Assume affections place; change harder is
Fancied to be; use Lords it soe ore man
That it brooks worst what's strange as being amisse.
And soe much witt should men in this age have
As they should chuse what's good and what's not leave.

Those men are blest that can their freedom get
Whensoere they will, and free themselves from thrall;
That hope disdaines, on joy a rate doth set
Inferiour far to th' blisse that ease men call:
A blest estate had better nere been knowne
Then from the height thereof downe to be throwne.