Classic Poem

Let fortune triumph now, and Io sing,
Sith I must fall beneath this load of care;
Let her, what most I prize of eu'rie thing,
Now wicked trophees in her temple reare.
Shee, who high palmie empires doth not spare,
And tramples in the dust the prowdest king,
Let her vaunt how my blisse shee did impaire,
To what low ebbe shee now my flow doth bring;
Let her count how, a new Ixion, mee
Shee in her wheele did turne, how high nor low
I neuer stood, but more to tortur'd bee:
Weepe, soule, weepe, plaintfull soule, thy sorrowes know,
Weepe, of thy teares till a blacke riuer swell,
Which may Cocytus be to this thy hell.