Classic Poem

So soone grow'n old? Hast thou bin six yeares dead?
Poore Earth, once by my Love inhabited!
And must I live to calculate the time
To which thy blooming Youth could never climbe,
But fell in the ascent? Yet have not I
Study'd enough Thy Losse's History?
How happy were mankind, if Death's strict Lawes
Consum'd our Lamentations like the Cause!
Or that our grief, turning to dust, might end
With the dissolved body of a freind!
But sacred Heaven! O how just thou art,
In stamping Death's impression on that heart
Which through thy favours would grow insolent,
Were it not physick't by sharp discontent.
If then it stand resolv'd in thy Decree,
That still I must doom'd to a Desart bee
Sprung out of my lone thoughts, which know no path
But what my owne misfortune beaten hath;
If thou wilt bind mee Living to a Coarse,
And I must slowly wast; I then of force
Stoop to thy great appointment, and obey
That Will, which nought availes mee to gainsay.
For whilst in Sorrowe's maze I wander on,
I doe but follow Life's Vocation.
Sure wee were made to grieve: At our first birth
With Cryes wee tooke possession of the Earth:
And though the lucky man reputed be
Fortune's Adopted Sonne: Yet only hee
Is Nature's True-borne Child, who summes his yeares
(Like mee) with no Arithmetick, but Teares.