Classic Poem

Sorrow, I yeeld, and greive that I did miss:
Will nott thy rage bee satisfied with this?
As sad a Divell as thee,
Made mee unhapy bee.
Wilt thou nott yett consent to leave, butt still
Strive how to showe thy cursed, devilsh skill;

I mourne, and dying am; what would you more?
My soule attends, to leave this cursed shore
Wher harmes doe only flow
Which teach mee butt to know
The sadest howres of my lives unrest,
And tired minutes with griefs hand oprest:

Yett all this will nott pacefy thy spite;
No, nothing can bring ease butt my last night.
Then quickly lett itt bee
While I unhappy see
That time, soe sparing to grant lovers bliss
Will see for time lost, ther shall noe grief miss,

Nor lett mee ever cease from lasting griefe,
Butt endless lett itt bee without reliefe:
To winn againe of love,
The favor I did prove;
And with my end please him; since dying I
Have him offended, yett unwillingly.