Classic Poem

From th'early Dawne untill the Sun retire,
I to these woods and hills my griefe exspire;
My eyes with boundlesse Rivers over-flow,
Like troubled Fountaines murmuring at my woe:
Perpetuall miseries I still deplore,
As they are mine: but as immortall more.
What is't by nature beauties wealth to owne,
If to these woods confin'd I live alone:
Or that my eyes have power to kill with love,
If neere me none but birds and beasts doe move?
Too cruell heav'n that know'st my innocence,
Or with my sorrows, or my life dispence.
Thou to torment me dost forbid me die,
For death is pleasing unto misery:
Let those that happy are enjoy their breath,
The wretched never live but in their death.
To each dull houre that slides through lazy day,
My griefes or memory of griefes I pay.
Thus live I, only pleas'd with this reliefe,
Death is the latest remedy of griefe.
For patience failes where th'injur'd soule sustaines
The rigour of unintermitted paines.