Classic Poem

He that his myrth hath lost,
Whose comfort is to rue,
Whose hope is falne, whose faith is cras'd,
Whose trust is founde untrue;

If he have helde them deere,
And cannot cease to mone,
Come, lett him take his place by me;
He shall not rue alone.

But if the smallest sweete
Be mixt with all his soure;
If in the day, the moneth, the yere,
He feele one lightninge houre,

Then rest he with him selfe;
He is no mate for me,
Whose tyme in teares, whose race in ruth,
Whose life a death must be.

Yett not the wished deathe,
That feeles no plaint or lacke,
That, makinge free the better parte,
Is onely Nature's wracke:

O no! that were too well;
My death is of the mynde,
That allwaies yeldes extremest pangues,
Yet threttens worse behinde.

As one that lives in shewe,
And inwardly doth dye;
Whose knowledge is a bloodye feilde,
Where Vertue slayne doth lye;

Whose hart the alter is
And hoast, a God to move;
From whome my evell doth feare revenge,
His good doth promise love.

My phancies are like thornes
In which I go by nighte;
My frighted witts are like a hoaste
That force hath put to flighte.

My sence is Passion's spie,
My thoughtes like ruyns old,
Which shew how faire the building was,
While grace did it upholde.

And still before myne eyes
My mortall fall they laye;
Whom Grace and Vertue once advauned,
Now synne hath cast away.

O thoughtes! no thoughtes, but woundes,
Sometyme the seate of joye,
Sometyme the store of quiett rest,
But now of all annoye.

I sow'd the soyle of peace;
My blisse was in the springe;
And day by day the fruite I eate,
That Vertue's tree did bringe.

To nettles nowe my corne,
My feild is turn'd to flynte,
Where I a heavy harvest reape.
Of cares that never stynte.

The peace, the rest, the life,
That I enjoy'd of yore,
Were happy lott, but by their losse
My smarte doth stinge the more.

So to unhappye menn,
The best frames to the worste;
O tyme! O place! where thus I fell;
Deere then, but now accurste!

In was , stands my delighte,
In is and shall , my woe;
My horror fastned in the yea ;
My hope hang'd in the noe .

Unworthy of releife,
That craved it too late,
Too late I finde, (I finde too well,)
Too well stoode my estate.

Behould, such is the ende
That pleasure doth procure,
Of nothing els but care and plaint
Can she the mynde assure.

Forsaken firste by grace,
By pleasure now forgotten,
Her payne I feele, but Grace's wage
Have others from me gotten.

Then, Grace where is the joye
That makes thy tormentes sweete?
Where is the cause that many thought
Their deathes through thee but meete?

Where thy disdayne of synne,
Thy secreet sweete delite?
Thy sparkes of blisse, thy heavenly rayes,
That shyned erst so brighte?

O that they were not loste,
Or I coulde it excuse;
O that a dreame of feyned losse
My judgement did abuse!

O frayle inconstant fleshe!
Soone trapt in every gynn!
Soone wrought thus to betray thy soule,
And plunge thy self in synne!

Yett hate I but the faulte,
And not the faltye one,
Ne can I rid from me the mate
That forceth me to mone;

To moane a synner's case,
Then which was never worse,
In prince or poore, in yonge or old,
In blissd or full of curse.

Yett God's must I remayne,
By death, by wronge, by shame;
I cannot blott out of my harte
That grace wrote in His name.

I cannot sett at noughte
Whome I have held so deare;
I cannot make Him seeme afarre,
That is in dede so neere.

Not that I looke henceforthe
For love that erst I founde;
Sith that I brake my plighted truth
To build on fickle grounde.

Yet that shall never fayle
Which my faith bare in hande;
I gave my vow; my vow gave me;
Both vow and gift shall stande.

But since that I have synnd,
And scourge none is too ill,
I yeld me captive to my curse,
My hard fate to fullfill.

The solitarye woode
My citye shall become;
The darkest denns shall be my lodge;
In which I rest or come:

A sandy plott my borde,
The woormes my feast shall be,
Wherewith my carcas shall be fedd,
Untill they feede on mee.

My teares shall be my wyne,
My bedd a craggy rocke:
My harmonye the serpente's hysse,
The screeching oule my clocke.

My exercise, remorse
And dolefull sinners' layes;
My booke, remembrance of my crymes,
And faltes of former dayes.

My walke, the pathe of playnte;
My prospect into hell,
Where Judas and his cursed crewe
In endles paynes do dwell.

And though I seeme to use
The feyning poet's stile,
To figure forth my carefull plight,
My fall and my exile:

Yet is my greife not fayn'd,
Wherein I sterve and pyne;
Who feeleth most shall thinke it lest, least
If his compare with myne.