Classic Poem

Come , my muse, if thou disdain,
All my comforts are bereft me;
No delight doth now remain,
I nor friend nor flock have left me,
They are scattered on the plain.

Men, alas! are too severe,
And make scoffs at lover's fortunes;
Women, hearted like the bear,
That regards not who importunes,
But doth all in pieces tear.

If I should my sorrow show
Unto rivers, springs, or fountains,
They are senseless of my woe:
So are groves, and rocks, and mountain
Then, oh, whither shall I go?

Means of harbour me to shield
From despair, ah! know you any?
For, nor city, grange, nor field
(Though they lend content to many)
Unto me can comfort yield.

I have wept and sighed too,
For compassion to make trial;
Yea, done all that words can do,
Yet have nothing but denial.
What way is there then to woo?

Shall I swear, protest, and vow?
So have I done most extremely.
Should I die? I know not how;
For from all attempts unseemly,
Love and virtue keep me now.

I have heard that time prevails,
But I fear me 'tis a fable;
Time and all endeavour fails:
To bear more my heart's unable,
Yet none careth what it ails.

Lines to some have oped the door,
And got entrance for affection;
Words well spoken much implore
By their gesture's good direction;
But a look doth ten times more.

'Tis the eve that only reads
To the heart love's deepest lectures;
By a moving look it pleads
More than common sense conjectures,
And a way to pity leads.

This I knowing did observe,
Both by words and looks complaining;
Yet for pity I may starve:
There's no hope of my obtaining,
Till I better can deserve.

Yea, and he that thinks to win
By desert, may be deceived;
For they who have worthiest been,
Of their right have been bereaved,
And a groom admitted in.

Wherefore, Muse, to thee I call;
Thou, since nothing else avails me,
Must redeem me from my thrall.
If thy sweet enchantment fails me,
Then adieu love, life, and all!