Classic Poem

WHEREIN, DESPITE HIS WRETCHEDNESS, HE PROTESTS HIS PASSION REMAINS UNALTERED

My sixteenth year of sighs its round has run:
Alone I stand, poised on the treacherous brink
Where Age swoops down; and yet, or so I think,
My testing time is only just begun.
Ah, sweet it is to live, to be undone;
Hard though life be, more suns in Heaven may sink
To vanquish misery: else Death may drink
Those eyes I praise, those lips that praises shun.
Here am I now who would be found elsewhere;
More would I wish, and yet no more I would;
I could no more, yet did I all I could:
And new tears born of old desire declare
That I am still as I was wont to be,
And that a thousand changes change not me.