Classic Poem

Deceiving world, that with alluring toys
Hast made my life the subject of thy scorn,
And scornest now to lend thy fading joys
T'outlength my life, whom friends have left forlorn.
How well are they that die ere they be born,
And never see thy slights, which few men shun
Till unawares they helpless are undone!

Oft have I sung of Love and of his fire;
But now I find that poet was advis'd,
Which made full feasts increasers of desire,
And proves weak love was with the poor despis'd;
For when the life with food is not suffic'd,
What thoughts of love, what motion of delight,
What pleasance can proceed from such a wight?

Witness my want, the murderer of my wit.
My ravish'd sense, of wonted fury reft,
Wants such conceit as should in poems fit
Set down the sorrow wherein I am left.
But therefore have high heavens their gifts bereft,
Because so long they lent them me to use,
And I so long their bounty did abuse.

O, that a year were granted me to live,
And for that year my former wits restor'd!
What rules of life, what counsel would I give,
How should my sin with sorrow be deplor'd!
But I must die of every man abhorr'd:
Time loosely spent will not again be won;
My time is loosely spent, and I undone.