Classic Poem

If that the sicke may grone,
Or orphane mourne his losse;
If wounded wretch may rue his harmes,
Or caytif shewe his crosse;

If hart consumd with care,
May utter signes of payne;
Then may my brest be Sorowe's home,
And tongue with cause complayne.

My malidye is synne
And languor of the mynde;
My body but a lazar's couche
Wherein my soule is pynde.

The care of heavenly kynne,
Is ded to my releife;
Forlorne, and left like orphane child,
With sighes I feede my greife.

My woundes, with mortall smarte
My dying soule tormente,
And, prisoner to myne owne mishapps,
My follyes I repente.

My hart is but the haunte
Where all dislikes do keepe;
And who can blame so lost a wretche,
Though teares of bloode he weepe?