Classic Poem

To M. P.

Like as the spotlesse Ermelin distrest,
Circumpast'd round with filth and lothsome mud:
Pines in her griefe, imprisoned in her nest,
And cannot issue forth to seeke her good.
So I inuiron'd with a hatefull want,
Looke to the heauens; the heauens yeelde forth no grace:
I search the earth, the earth I finde as skant,
I view my selfe, my selfe in wofull case.
Heauen nor earth will not, my selfe cannot wake
A way through want to free my soule from care:
But I must pine, and in my pining lurke,
Least my sad lookes bewray me how I fare.
My fortune mantled with a clowde s'obscure;
Thus shades my life so long as wants endure.