Classic Poem

Casimirus, Lib. 4. Ode 13.

If weeping Eyes could wash away
Those Evills they mourn for night and day ,
Then gladly I to cure my fears
With my best Jewells would buy tears .
But as dew feeds the growing Corn ,
So Crosses that are grown forlorn
Increase with griefe, teares make teares way,
And cares kept up, keep cares in pay .
That wretch whom Fortune finds to feare ,
And melting still into a teare ,
She strikes more boldly , but a face
Silent and drie doth her amaze .
Then leave thy teares , and tedious tale
Of what thou doest misfortunes call,
What thou by weeping think'st to ease ,
Doth by that Passion but Increase ;
Hard things to Soft will never yield,
'Tis the drie Eye that wins the field;
A noble patience quells the spite
Of Fortune , and disarms her quite.