Classic Poem

Tirde with a Burthen of Extremities,
Which breakes, not bowes, my wofull Hart in twaine,
And checkt with chiefest Mate of Miseries,
I linger out my lothed life in paine.
Then death, not life, I may this living call,
Where ceasles Noy, not joy, doth me befall.

Black gloomy Thoughts on me doe tyrannise,
And to my Soule appoynted faithfull Guides,
Doe her deceive, with her they subtellise,
Nor in this ill to comfort me None bides.
All my best Hopes are at an Ebbing low,
Whilst stealing yeares, with griefes encreasing grow.

What shall I doe? shall I to reason turne?
Oh no, for her I too much have offended.
What, shal I goe to LOVE, and to him mourne
For aide, and promise all shall be amended?
Alas, it were in vaine, and labour lost,
Where he doth promise, he deceiveth most.

See then ye fond Desires, what you have done,
By headstrong Will, sage Reason to deprave:
But what shall I, as now resolve upon?
Whom shall I trust? of whom helpe shall I crave?
Even her who first betraide me will I trust,
She can but be (as she hath been) unjust.