Classic Poem

I'll think no more, it wearies me to think,
My sad Ideas, make me deeper sink,
Into a sort of melancholy Mood,
That if indulg'd, portends my Soul no Good.
Despair, the Offspring is, of painful Thought,
Avaunt, ye Cares — for I will think of naught;
No more the gloomy Prospect will I view,
No more Affliction, as my Goal pursue;
But like the Bee, from Flow'r to Flow'r I'll roam,
Extract their Sweets, and carry Honey home,