Classic Poem

Com yonglings com, that seem to make such mone,
About a thing of nothing God he knowes:
With sighes and sobs, and many a greeuous grone
And trickling teares, that secret sorow shewes,
Leaue, leaue to faine, and here behold indeed,
The onely man, may make your harts to bleed

Whose state to tell; no, neuer toong can tell:
Whose woes are such; oh no, there are none such:
Whose hap so hard; nay rather halfe a hell:
Whose griefe so much: yea God he knowes too much:
Whose wofull state and greeuous hap (alas),
The world may see is such as neuer was.

Good nature weepes to see hir selfe abused;
Ill fortune shewes hir furie in hir face:
Poore reason pines to see hir selfe refused:
And dutie dies, to see his sore disgrace.
Hope hangs the head, to see dispaire so neere;
And what but death can end this heauie cheere?

O cursed cares, that neuer can be knowne:
Dole worse than death, when neuer tong can tell it:
The hurt is bid, although the sorow showne
Such is my paine, no pleasure can expell it
In summe. I see I am ordained I:
To liue in dole and so in sorow die.

Behold each teare, no token of a toy:
But torments such, as teare my hart asunder:
Each sobbing sigh, a signe of such annoy
That how I liue, beleue mee tis a wonder.
Each grone, a gripe, that makes me gaspe for breath:
And euerie straine a bitter pang of death.

Loe thus I liue, but looking still to die:
And still I looke, but still I see in vaine:
And still in vaine, alas, I lie and crie:
And still I crie, but haue no case of paine.
So still in paine, I liue, looke, lie, and crie:
When hope would helpe or death would let me die.

Sometime I sleepe, a slumber, not a sleepe:
And then I dreame (God knowes) of no delight
But of such woes, as makes me lie and weepe
Vntill I wake, in such a pitious plight:
As who beheld me sleeping or awaking,
Would say my heart were in a heauie taking.

Looke as the dew doth lie vpon the ground,
So sits the sweate of sorrow on my face:
Oh deadly dart, that strooke so deepe a wound
Oh hatefull hap, to hit in such a place:
The hart is hurt, and bleedes the bodie ouer:
Yet cannot die, nor euer health recouer.

Then he or she, that hath a happie hand,
To helpe a hart, that hath no hope to liue:
Come come with speede, and do not staying stand:
But if no one can any comfort giue,
Run to the Church, and bid the Sexton toule
A solemne knell yet for a silie soule.

Harke how it sounds, that sorrow lasteth long:
Long, long: long long: long long, and longer yet:
Oh cruell Death; thou doost me double wrong
To let me lie so long in such a fit:
Yet when I die, write neighbors where I lie;
Long was I dead, ere death would let me die.