Classic Poem

The thought of wonted joyes doubleth the miserable mans griefe.

I that whose youth was lul'd in pleasures lap,
Whose wanton yeres were never chargd with care;
Who made no flight, but reacht the pitch of hap,
And now besieg'd with griefe at unawares;
How can my hart but bleede to thinke on this?
My joy with was , my woe is joyned with is .

With is? (Oh, yea!) and ever wil be so
Such hell is thought to muse on joyes forgone;
For though content would faine appease my woe,
This myrthlesse note continues fresh my mone.
O, deare delight! with whome I dwelt in joy,
Thy sowrest sweete my sorrowes would destroy.

Destroy it would; but, oh! those dayes are past,
When to my wil I found dame fortune wrought:
My fancies cleare with cares are over cast,
Yet bootelesse hope will not forsake my thought,
But still proroges my griefe, that else would dye
To vaine effect when I my toyling spye.