Classic Poem

For eyes that are deliuer'd of their birth,
And hearts that can complaine, none needs to care:
I pitie not their sighes that pierce the ayre,
To weepe at will were a degree of mirth:
But he (ay me) is to be pitied most,
Whose sorrowes haue attain'd to that degree,
That they are past expressing, and can be
Onely imagin'd by a man that's lost.
The teares that would burst out yet are restrain'd,
Th' imprison'd plaints that perish without fame,
Sighs form'd and smoother'd ere they get a name,
Those to be pitied are (o griefe vnfain'd)
Whilst sighes the voice, the voice the sighs confounds,
Then teares marre both, and all are out of bounds.