Classic Poem

In eaves sole sparowe sitts not more alone,
Nor mourning pelican in desert wilde,
Than sely I, that solitary mone,
From highest hopes to hardest happ exild:
Sometyme, O blisfull tyme! was Vertue's meede
Ayme to my thoughtes, guide to my word and deede.

But feares now are my pheares, greife my delight,
My teares my drinke, my famisht thoughtes my bredd;
Day full of dumpes, nurse of unrest the nighte,
My garmentes gives, a bloody feilde my bedd;
My sleape is rather death then deathe's allye,
Yet kil'd with murdring pangues I cannot dye.

This is the change of my ill changed choise,
Ruth for my rest, for comfortes cares I finde;
To pleasing tunes succeedes a playninge voyce,
The dolefull eccho of my waylinge minde;
Which, taught to know the worth of Vertue's joyes,
Doth hate it self, for lovinge phancie's toyes.

If wiles of witt had overwroughte my will,
Or sutle traynes misledd my steppes awrye,
My foyle had founde excuse in want of skill,
Ill deede I might, though not ill dome, denye.
But witt and will muste nowe confesse with shame,
Both deede and dome to have deserved blame.

I phancy deem'd fitt guide to leade my waie,
And as I deem'd I did pursue her track,
Witt lost his ayme and will was phancie's pray;
The rebell wonne, the ruler went to wracke.
But now sith phancye did with follye end,
Witt bought with losse, will taught by witt, will mend.