Classic Poem

O fate! conspir'd to powre your worst on mee,
O rigorous rigour, which doth all confound!
With cruell hands yee haue cut down the tree,
And fruit and flowre dispersed on the ground.
A litle space of earth my loue doth bound;
That beautie which did raise it to the skie,
Turn'd in neglected dust, now low doth lie,
Deafe to my plaints, and senslesse of my wound.
Ah! did I liue for this, ah! did I loue?
For this and was it shee did so excell?
That ere shee well life's sweet-sowre ioyes did proue,
Shee should, too deare a guest, with horrour dwell?
Weake influence of Heauen! what faire yee frame,
Falles in the prime, and passeth like a dreame.