Classic Poem

Wherefore do thy sad numbers flow,
So full of woe?
Why dost thou melt in such soft strains,
Whilst she disdains?
If she must still deny,
Weep not, but die!
And in thy funeral fire
Shall all her fame expire.
Thus both shall perish, and as thou on thy hearse
Shall want her tears, so she shall want thy verse.
Repine not then at thy blest state:
Thou art above thy fate,
But my fair Celia will not give
Love enough to make me live;
Nor yet dart from her eye
Scorn enough to make me die.
Then let me weep alone till her kind breath
Or blow my tears away, or speak my death.