Classic Poem

Alas, with what tormenting fire
Us martyreth this blind desire
To stay our life from flying!
How ceaselessly our minds doth rack,
How heavy lies upon our back,
This dastard fear of dying!

Death rather healthful succour gives,
Death rather all mishaps relieves
That life upon us throweth;
And ever to us doth unclose
The door whereby from cureless woes
Our weary soul out goeth.

What goddess else more mild than she
To bury all our pains can be?
What remedy more pleasing?
Our painëd hearts when dolour stings
And nothing rest or respite brings,
What help have we more easing?

Hope, which to us doth comfort give
And doth our fainting hearts revive,
Hath not such force in anguish:
For, promising a vain relief,
She oft us fails in midst of grief,
And helpless lets us languish.

But Death, who call on her at need,
Doth never with vain semblant feed,
But, when them sorrow paineth,
So rids their souls of all distress,
Whose heavy weight did them oppress,
That not one grief remaineth.