Classic Poem

Thou wretched man, whome I discouer, borne
To want, and sorrowe, and the Vulgars scorne:
Why haunt'st thou freely, these vnhaunted places,
Emptie of pleasures? empty of all Graces,
Fashions, and Riches; by the best pursude
With broken Sleepe, Toyle, Loue, Zeale, Seruitude;
With feare and trembling, with whole liues, and Soules?
While thou break'st sleepes, digst vnder Earth, like moules,
To liue, to seeke me out, whome all men fly:
And think'st to finde, light in obscuritie,
Eternitie, in this deepe vale of death:
Look'st euer vpwards, and liu'st still beneath;
Fill'st all thy actions, with strife, what to thinke,
Thy Braine with Ayre, and skatterst it in inke:
Of which thou mak'st weeds for thy soule to weare,
As out of fashion, as the bodies are.