Classic Poem

Ye Poets, that in Passion, melt to Inke,
Wherewith Melpomen drawes her saddest Lines ,
So melt; that so my thirstie Pen may drinke
Of you, made Liquid for the sadd'st Designes:

For, were all Spirits of Poets made intire,
And I therewith inspir'd; and had I Pens
Made of Times saddest Plumes, yet full of Fire ,
All were too cold for Passion for these Threns!
Here is a Ground for Art, and Sorrowes Soules
(Diuinely kolpe) to prooue their Descant on:
This World of Griefe so whoorles on Passions Poles
That still it Varies, though it still be One!
Then Braines, if ere yee did your Owner steed,
My Heart hereon, through my Pen, make to bleed!