Classic Poem

If in annoy be any roome for mirth,
Or in confinement place for cheerfulnesse,
Then (noble Lord) this booke's abortiue birth
Will (lightly) moue thy spleene in heauinesse.
Therefore, when Time seemes longest in his traine.
And thou wouldst cut it off, or speede his race,
Blow but these idle bubbles of my braine
Into the aire, and he will mend his pace.
The lightest ioyes beguile the heauiest griefe:
Some sing in sorrow, some tormented, smile;
Sicke mindes catch hold of all that yeeldes reliefe
And would their anguish any way beguile:
Then if these toyes deceaue annoyes in thee,
Ifor my paines haue had the welcomst fee.