The mann whose thoughtes agaynste him do conspyre, <br /> One whom Mishapp her storye dothe depaynt, <br />The mann of woe, the matter of desier, <br /> Free of the dead, that lives in endles plaint, <br />His spirit am I, whiche in this deserte lye, <br />To rue his case, whose cause I cannot flye. <br /> <br /> <br />Despayre my name, whoe never findes releife, <br /> Frended of none, but to my selfe a foe; <br />An idle care, mayntaynde by firme beleife <br /> That prayse of faythe shall throughe my torments growe, <br />And counte those hopes, that others hartes do ease, <br />Butt base conceites the common sense to please. <br /> <br /> <br />For sure I am I never shall attayne <br /> The happy good from whence my joys aryse; <br />Nor haue I powre my sorrows to refrayne <br /> But wayle the wante, when noughte ellse maye suffyse; <br />Whereby my lyfe the shape of deathe muste beare, <br />That deathe which feeles the worst that lyfe doth feare. <br /> <br /> <br />But what auayles withe tragicall complaynte, <br /> Not hopinge healpe, the Furyes to awake? <br />Or why shoulde I the happy mynds aquaynte <br /> With doleful tunnes, theire settled peace to shake? <br />All ye that here behoulde Infortune's feare, <br />May judge noe woe may withe my gref compare. <br /> <br /> <br />Finis.<br /><br />Sir Edward Dyer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-man-of-woe/
