Classic Poem

Fair fields, proud Flora's vaunt, why is 't you smile,
when as I languish?
You golden meads, why strive you to beguile
my weeping anguish?
I live to sorrow, you to pleasure spring:
why do you spring thus?
What? will not Boreas, tempest's wrathful king,
take some pity on us,
And send forth winter in her rusty weed,
to wait my bemoanings;
Whiles I distressed do tune my country reed
unto my groanings?

But heaven, and earth, time, place, and every power
have with her conspired
To turn my blissful sweets to baleful sour,
since fond I desired
The heaven whereto my thoughts may not aspire:
ay me unhappy!
It was my fault t' embrace my bane the fire,
that forceth me to die.
Mine be the pain, but hers the cruel cause
of this strange torment:
Wherefore no time my banning prayers shall pause,
till proud she repent.