Classic Poem

Why art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, Death,
To stop a wretch's breath
That calls on thee, and offers her sad heart
A prey unto thy dart?
I am not young nor fair; be therefore bold:
Sorrow hath made me old,
Deformed and wrinkled; all that I can crave
Is quiet in my grave.
Such as live happy, hold long life a jewel;
But to me thou art cruel
If thou end not my tedious misery,
And I soon cease to be.
Strike and strike home, then; pity unto me,
In one short hour's delay, is tyranny.