Classic Poem

Unhappy Muse, that nothing pleasest me,
But tir'st thyself to reap another's bliss,
She that as much forbears thy melody,
As fearful maidens do the serpent's hiss,
Doth she not fly away when I would sing?
Or doth she stay, when I with many a tear
Keep solemn time to my woes' uttering;
And ask what wild birds grant to lend an ear
O hapless tongue, in silence ever live,
And ye, my founts of tears, forbear supply:
Since neither words, nor tears, nor Muse can give
Ought worth the pitying such a wretch as I.
Grieve to yourselves, if needs you will deplore,
Till tears and words are spent for evermore.