Classic Poem

Farwell fond Love, under whose childish whipp
I have serv'd out a weary prentishipp;
Thou that hast made mee thy scorn'd property,
To dote on Rocks, but yielding Loves to fly:
Go bane of my dear quiet and content,
Now practise on some other Patient.

Farwell false Hope, that fann'd my warme desire
Till it had rais'd a wild unruly fire,
Which nor Sighes coole, nor teares extinguish can,
Allthough my Eyes out-flow'd the Ocean:
Forth of my thoughts for ever, Thing of Aire,
Begun in Errour, finish't in Despaire.

Farwell vaine World, upon whose restlesse Stage
Twixt Love and Hope I have fool'd out my Age;
Henceforth, ere sue to thee for my redresse,
I'le wooe the Wind, or court the Wildernesse,
And buryed from the Daye's discovery,
Study a slow, yet certaine way to Dy.

My wofull Monument shall be a Cell,
The murmur of the purling brook my Knell.
My lasting Epitaph the Rock shall groane:
Thus when sad Lovers ask the weeping Stone,
What wretched thing does in that Center ly?
The hollow Eccho will reply, 'Twas I.