Classic Poem

Who grace for zenith had,
From which no shadows grow,
Who hath seen joy of all his hopes
And end of all his woe;

Whose love beloved hath been
The crown of his desire,
Who hath seen sorrow's glories burnt
In sweet affection's fire;

If from this heavenly state,
Which souls with souls unites,
He be fallen down into the dark
Despaired war of sprights;

Let him lament with me,
For none doth glory know,
That hath not been above himself,
And thence fallen down to woe.

But if there be one hope
Left in his languished heart,
If fear of worse, if wish of ease,
If horror my depart;

He plays with his complaints,
He is no mate for me,
Whose love is lost, whose hopes are fled,
Whose fears for ever be.

Yet not those happy fears,
Which show desire her death,
Teaching with use a peace in woe,
And in despair a faith.

No, no, by fears kill not,
But make uncured wounds,
Where joy and peace do issue out,
And only pain abounds.

Unpossible are help,
Reward and hope to me;
Yet, while unpossible they are,
They easy seem to be.

Most easy seems remorse,
Despair and death to me;
Yet, while they passing easy seem,
Unpossible they be.

So neither can I leave
My hopes that do deceive,
Nor can I trust my own despair,
And nothing else receive.

Thus be unhappy men
Blest to be more accurst;
Near to the glories of the sun,
Clouds with most horror burst.

Like ghosts raised out of graves,
Who live not, though they go,
Whose walking fear to others is
And to themselves a woe;

So is my life by her,
Whose love to me is dead,
On whose worth my despair yet walks,
And my desire is fed.

I swallow down the bait
Which carries down my death;
I cannot put love from my heart,
While life draws in my breath.

My winter is within,
Which withereth my joy,
My knowledge seat of civil war,
Where friends and foes destroy;

And my desires are wheels,
Whereon my heart is borne,
With endless turning of themselves,
Still living to be torn.

My thoughts are eagles' food,
Ordained to be a prey
To worth; and being still consumed,
Yet never to decay.

My memory, where once
My heart laid up the store
Of help, of joy, of spirit's wealth,
To multiply them more,

Is now become the tomb
Wherein all these lie slain,
My help, my joy, my spirit's wealth,
All sacrificed to pain.

In paradise I once
Did live and taste the tree,
Which shadowed was from all the world,
In joy to shadow me.

The tree hath lost his fruit,
Or I have lost my seat;
My soul both black with shadow is
And over-burnt with heat.

Truth here for triumph serves
To show her power is great,
Whom no desert can overcome,
Nor no distress entreat.

Time past lays up my joy,
And time to come my grief;
She ever must be my desire
And never my relief.

Wrong her lieutenant is;
My wounded thoughts are they,
Who have no power to keep the field,
Nor will to run away.

O rueful constancy,
And where is change so base,
As it may be compared with thee
In scorn and in disgrace?

Like as the kings forlorn,
Deposed from their estate,
Yet cannot choose but love the crown,
Although new kings they hate;

If they do plead their right,
Nay, if they only live,
Offences to the crown alike
Their good and ill shall give;

So I would I were not,
Because I may complain,
And cannot choose but love my wrongs,
And joy to wish in vain.

This faith condemneth me;
My right doth rumour move;
I may not know the cause I fell,
Nor yet without cause love.

Then, Love, where is reward,
At least where is the fame
Of them that, being, bear thy cross,
And, being not, thy name?

The world's example, I,
A fable, everywhere,
A well from whence the springs are dried,
A tree that doth not bear.

I, like the bird in cage,
At first with cunning caught,
And in my bondage for delight
With greater cunning taught,

Now owner's humour dies,
I neither loved nor fed
Nor freed am, till in the cage
Forgotten I be dead.

The ship of Greece, the streams,
And she, be not the same
They were, although ship, streams, and she
Still bear their antique name.

The wood which was is worn,
Those waves are run away,
Yet still a ship, and still a stream,
Still running to a sea.

She loved and still she loves,
But doth not still love me;
To all except myself yet is,
As she was wont to be.

O, my once happy thoughts,
The heaven where grace did dwell!
My saint hath turned away her face,
And made that heaven my hell;

A hell, for so is that
From whence no souls return,
Whence, while our sprights are sacrificed,
They waste not, though they burn.

Since then this is my state,
And nothing worse than this,
Behold the map of death-like life,
Exiled from lovely bliss.

Alone among the world,
Strange with my friends to be,
Showing my fall to them that scorn,
See not or will not see;

My heart a wilderness,
My studies only fear,
And, as in shadows of curst death,
A prospect of despair;

My exercise must be
My horrors to repeat,
My peace, joy, end, and sacrifice
Her dead love to entreat;

My food the time that was,
The time to come my fast,
For drink the barren thirst I feel
Of glories that are past;

Sighs and salt tears my bath,
Reason my looking-glass,
To show me he most wretched is,
That once most happy was;

Forlorn desires my clock,
To tell me every day,
That time hath stolen love, life, and all
But my distress away;

For music heavy signs,
My walk an inward woe,
Which like a shadow ever shall
Before my body go.

And I myself am he
That doth with none compare,
Except in woes and lack of worth,
Whose states most wretched are.

Let no man ask my name,
Nor what else I should be;
For Griev-Ill, pain, forlorn estate,
Do best decipher me.