Classic Poem

Far from these bankes exiled be all joyes,
Contentments, pleasures, musick, care's reliefe,
Tears, sighs, plaints, horrours, frightments, sad annoies
Invest these mountaines, fill all hearts with griefe.

Here nightingals and turtles vent your moanes;
Amphrisian shepheard here come feed thy flocks,
And read thy hyacinth amidst our groanes,
Plaine, Eccho, thy Narcissus from our rocks.

Lost have our meads their beauty, hills their gemms,
Our brooks their christall, groves their pleasant shade,
The fairest flow'r of all our anademms
Death cropped hath, the Lesbia chaste is dead.
Thus sighed the Tyne, then shrunke beneath his urne,
And meads, brooks, rivers, hills about did mourne.