Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE RECOUNTS THE CAUSES OF HIS WOE

Love, Fortune, and my melancholy state,
Despising what is present by what's past,
So plague my soul that on the dead I cast
Thoughts envious of the peace they contemplate.
Love tears my heart; Fortune, more obstinate,
Afflicts me without pause, until at last,
Worn out by ills as vigilant as vast,
To constant warfare I submit my fate.
Nor do I hope for happier days again,
But tinge the future a more turbulent tint;
Spring is no more — summer is on the wane:
Ah, miserable me! I catch the hint
And see my hopes (too plain, alas, too plain!)
Shattered like glass, scattered like sparks of flint.