Classic Poem

Ah me!
Am I the Swaine,
That late from sorrow free,
Did all the cares on earth disdaine?
And still untoucht, as at some safer Games,
Play'd with the burning coals of Love, & Beauties flames?
Was't I, could dive, & sound each passions secret depth at will;
And, from those huge overwhelmings, rise, by help of Reason still?
And am I now, oh heavens! for trying this in vaine,
So sunke, that I shall never rise againe?
Then let Dispaire, set Sorrows string,
For Strains that dolefulst be,
And I will sing,
Ah me.

But why,
Oh fatall Time!
Dost thou constraine that I,
Should perish, in my youths sweet prime?
I, but a while ago (you cruell Powers)
In spight of Fortune, cropt contentments sweetest flowers.
And yet, unscorned, serve a gentle Nymph, the fairest Shee,
That ever was belov'd of Man, or Eyes did ever see.
Yea, one whose tender heart, would rue for my distresse;
Yet I, poore I, must perish nay-the-lesse.
And (which much more augments my care)
Unmoaned I must dye:
And, no man e'er,
Know why.

Thy leave,
My dying Song,
Yet take, ere griefe bereave,
The breath which I enjoy too long.
Tell thou that Fair-one this; my soul prefers,
Her love above my life, and that I died hers:
And let Him be, for evermore, to her remembrance deare,
Who lov'd the very thought of Her, whilst he remained here.
And now, farewell thou Place of my unhappy birth;
Where once I breathd the sweetest aire on earth.
Since me, my wonted joyes forsake;
And all my trust deceive:
Of all, I take
My leave.

Farewell,
Sweet Groves to you:
You Hills, that highest dwell;
And all you humble Vales, adieu.
You wanton Brookes, and solitary Rockes,
My deare companions all, and you, my tender flockes.
Farewell my Pipe, and all those pleasing Songs, whose moving straines
Delighted once the fairest Nymphes, that daunce upon the Plaines.
You Discontents (whose deep, & over-deadly smart,
Have, without pitie, broke the truest heart)
Sighs, Teares, and every sad annoy,
That erst did with me dwell,
And all others Joy,
Farewell.

Adieu,
Faire Shepherdesses:
Let Garlands of sad Yewe,
Adorne your daintie golden Tresses.
I, that lovd you; and often with my Quill,
Made musick that delighted Fountain, Grove, & Hill:
I, whom you loved so; and with a sweet and chast embrace,
(Yea, with a thousand rarer favors) would vouchsafe to grace.
I, now must leave you all alone, of Love to plaine:
And never Pipe, nor never Sing againe.
I must, for evermore, bee gone;
And therefore, bid I you,
And every one,