Classic Poem

At the Authors going into Italie.

And whither (poore forsaken) wilt thou goe,
To goe from sorrow, and thine owne distresse?
When euery place presents like face of woe,
And no remoue can make thy sorrowes lesse?
Yet goe (forsaken) leaue these Woods, these plaines,
Leaue her and all, and all for her that leaues
Thee and thy Loue forlorne, and both disdaines:
And of both, wrongfull deemes, and ill conceiues.
Seeke out some place, and see if any place
Can giue the least release vnto thy griefe:
Conuay thee from the thought of thy disgrace,
Steale from thy selfe, and be thy cares owne thiefe.
But yet, what comforts shall I hereby gaine?
Bearing the wound, I needes must feele the paine.