Classic Poem

Cruell Remembrance alas now be still,
Put me not on the Racke to torture me:
I doe confesse my greatest misery
Lives in your plenty, my last harme your skill.

Poyson, and Venome onely once doe kill,
While you perpetually new mischiefes see,
To vexe my soule with endlesse memory,
Leaving no thought that may increase my ill.

Els have you neede to tell me I was blest,
Rich in the treasure of content, and love,
When I like him, or her had sweetest rest
But passd like daies, you stay and vexings prove.

Chang'd from all favours you add unto despaire
Who under these waights grone, most wretched are.