Classic Poem

O But the dregs of flesh and blood! how close
They grapple with my soule, and interpose
Her higher thoughts; which, yet but young of wing
They cause to stoope and strike at every thing;
Passion presents before their weakned eye,
Iudgement and better reason standing by!
I must lament, Nature commands it so;
The more I strive with teares, the more they flow:
These eyes have just, nay double cause of moane,
They weep the common losse, they weep their own.
He sleeps indeed; then give me leave to weep
Teares, fully answerable to his sleep.