Classic Poem

In midst of silent night,
When men, birds, beasts, doe rest,
With loue and feare possest,
To heauen and Flore I count my heauie plight.
Againe with roseate wings
When morne peepes forth, and Philomela sings,
Then voyde of all reliefe,
Doe I renew my griefe:
Day followes night, night day, whilst still I proue
That heauen is deafe, Flore carelesse of my loue.