Classic Poem

The starre of my mishap impos'd this paine,
To spend the Aprill of my yeeres in wayling,
That ever found my fortune on the wayne,
With still fresh cares my present woes assayling
Yet her I blame not, though for her 'tis done,
But my desire's wings so high aspyring,
Which now are melted by that glorious Sunne,
That makes me fall from off my hie desiring
And in my fall, I cry for helpe with speed:
No pittying eye lookes backe upon my mourning;
No succour finde I now when most I need;
Th'Ocean of my teares must drowne me burning;
Whilst my distress shall christen her anew,
And give the Cruell Fayre this title due.