Classic Poem

Harke, plaintfull ghosts, infernall furies, harke
Vnto my woes the hatefull heauens doe send:
The heauens conspir'd to make my vitall sparke
A wretched wracke, a glasse of Ruine's end
Seeing, alas, so mightie powers bend
Their irefull shot against so weake a marke:
Come, caue, become my graue; come, death, and lend
Receit to mee within thy bosome darke.
For what is life to daily-dying minde,
Where, drawing breath, I sucke the ayre of woe;
Where too much sight makes all the body blinde,
And highest thoughts downeward most headlong throw?
Thus, then, my forme, and thus my state I find, —
Death wrapt in flesh to liuing graue assign'd.