Classic Poem

As I me sate vpon a Riuer side
And markt the Water how it past away,
And how that past, with like, was straight supplide,
That still is past, and still held at a stay,
Mee thought t'was like this Sea of Sorrowes Tide,
Wherein the Race of Man-kinde runneth so:
For, downe the Streme of Days, to Death we glide,
And still Some come, as fast as Others go
And as the Streame with many Reaches runnes;
So runnes our Course, with many way-ward Reaches:
This, Ill it runnes to, and that Good it shunnes;
And, to runne out of Course, makes many Breaches
Then, with my selfe I thus discourst, at last,
I, with the rest, am running downe this Streame:
Here now, there then, then, presently am past,
Like Streames swift Course, if not much more extreame:
For, ah, I cannot think how swift I flee
But I flee swifter then that Thought, to Death:
For, Times least Partes, then Thoughts much breefer bee,
Which Thought, with thought, my short time shorteneth!
I am orewhelm'd in Thoughts, as deepe as Hell
And highe as Heau'n, when thus my state I waigh:
And twixt those Thoughts I (as intraunc't) do dwell,
While Time drawes mee to Death the neerest way:
For, Thought breedes Melancholie, which doth breede
The Enemies of Health; and, they do sow
(In Fleshes Earth) our Dissolutions Seede,
That vs dissolues when it begins to grow
If from my selfe I do my selfe dluide
(The longer, so, to keepe my selfe intire)
And gine my Sense delight, my Thoughts to guide
To Mirth, abroade for bealth: they straite retire:
And, sooner can long married Men forgett
They married are, then I forgett the Thought
To which I owe my selfe as duest Debt
Since I was matcht to Ill and knew it Nought:
For, if I lett my easl moouing Minde
(With lightest shock turne from his weightie Point)
It rests no where, but in this Point, by kinde;
So, Lightest Purposes doth disappoint
The Elements, though still at Warre in mee,
Do yet, in firme accord, mine ende conspire:
For It they hasten, sith they disagree;
Which well agrees to make me vnintire
Then, ô why should I add sadd care, to Care,
When one's of pow'r of Life, to foile?
Why should I care to spend, and care to spare,
To spare a Life which sparing doth but spoile?
Why should I care to liue, sith die I should
If I would liue quite free from Thought and Care?
For, Thought's the Deede by which this life we hold
Which yet determines Life, ere Thought beware
Suppose with cark, past Care, I could obtaine
A golden Crowne (but better I were of Baies)
And with Hell paines a tripple One attaine:
What gott I but more Care to ende my Days?
And were Time staied, and Life most stedfast too:
Such endlesse Kings, had gott but endlesse Cares:
And so the longer Life, the more adoo:
The more adoo, the Dooer worser fares,
While thus my thoughts are temp'ring, lo, with Time,
Time hath stoll'n on mee, to steale mee away:
Awaie, with time, I go: hark, hark the Chime
Saith Musicks charming Notes Time cannot stay:
And, if not Musick no Mirth vnder Sunne
Hath pow'r to stay Him: but, Mirth Pas-time is:
By It, the sooner, Time away doth runne:
Then, Life is wretched both in Bale, and Blisse!
If it be wretched, lothsome is it then:
If so, then so wee are, to loue it so:
Men-Beasts wee bee, that reason want of Men.
To loue our Prison, perill, paine, and wo.
Thus while, with healthful breath, I breathe out This
I can contempne this Life, and those condemne
That are in Loue with it, as with their blisse,
But, were Death neere, I might be one of Them
Yet, let me not my dying Heart bely
(Which dyeth as it liues, in thought of Death)
It nought (but Heau'n) desires more then to dy;
And, yeeld, to endless rest, my weary breath
Weery, I well may tearme it, that still toiles,
To keepe a tollesome Life from endlesse rest:
So, wrongeth Life the more, the more it moiles:
Which is at worst, when it is at the best!
O Breath, fraile Breath! (base Daughter of the Aire)
Flie to thy Mother, me no longer griue;
Nor would I dy, because I do dispaire
But dy, because I hope, in rest, to liue.
Here is but Tolle, and thou holdst mee to It:
Which I abide, sith thou abidst in mee:
So but losse wynn I, by thy benefitt,
The losse of Rest, that restlesse am through thee:
Yet, till thy Giuer take thee, make no hast:
For, I was borne to toile, for rest, at last.