Classic Poem

O Whether (poore forsaken) wilt thou goe,
To goe from sorrow, and thine owne distresse,
When every place presents like face of woe,
And no remove can make thy sorrowes lesse?
Yet goe (forsaken,) leave these woods, these playnes,
Leave her and all, and all for her that leaves
Thee and thy love forlorne, and both disdaines;
And of both, wrongfull deemes, and ill conceaves
Seeke out some place, and see if any place
Can give the least release unto they griefe:
Convay thee from the thought of thy disgrace,
Steale from thy selfe, and be thy care's own thiefe
But yet what comfort shall I heereby gaine?
Bearing the wound, I needs must feele the paine.