Classic Poem

Trees happier far than I,
Which have the grace to heave your heads so high,
And over-look those plaines,
Grow till your branches kisse that lofty skie
Which her sweet selfe containes;
There make her know mine endlesse love and paines,
And how these teares which from mine eyes do fall,
Helpt you to rise so tall:
Tell her, as once I for her sake lov'd breath,
So for her sake I now court ling'ring death.