Classic Poem

Mine eyes have spent their tears, and now are dry:
My weary hand will guide my pen no more:
My voice is hoarse, and can no longer cry:
My head hath left no new complaints in store:
My heart is overburdened so with pain,
That sense of grief doth none therein remain.

The tears you see distilling from mine eyes,
My gentle Muse doth shed for this my grief;
The plaints you hear are her incessant cries,
By which she calls in vain for some relief.
She never parted since my grief begun;
In her I live; she dead, my life were done.

Then, loving Muse, depart, and let me die;
Some braver youth will sue to thee for grace,
That may advance thy glory to the sky,
And make thee scorn blind Fortune's frowning face:
My heart and head, that did thee entertain,
Desire and Fortune with despite have slain.

My lady dares not lodge thee in her breast,
For fear, un'wares she let in love with thee.
For well she thinks some part in thee must rest,
Of that which so possessed each part of me.
Then, good my Muse, fly back to heav'n again,
And let me die, to end this endless pain.