Classic Poem

Wit, whither wilt thou? Woe is me!
Always musing, fie for shame!
Sorry I am the same to see,
That love hath brought thee out of frame—
Out of frame and temper too;
This can love and fancy do!

Once I knew thee well advised;
But now, I am sure, 'tis nothing so.
Love thy senses hath disguised,
And her beauty bred thy woe—
Thy woe, thy time, thy downfall too;
This can love and fancy do!

Pale, and wan, and worn with care,
And all to melancholy bent:
Thus doth madmen use to fare
When their wits with love are spent—
Content with discontentments too;
This can love and fancy do!

Those humours purge that stops thy breath!
Purge those fancies from thy head!
Such conceits will breed thy death:
She will laugh when thou art dead—
Laugh she will, and lie down too;
These conceits will women do!

A bird in hand 's worth two in brier;
Why then should I say ‘Woe 's me!’
Because the things that I desire
Are true and constant unto me?
Therefore, I say, cast care from thee,
And never more say ‘Woe is me!’