Classic Poem

When Christ, by grouth, disclosed His descent
Into the pure receite of Marye's breste,
Poore Joseph, straunger yet to God's intent,
With doubtes of jelious thoughtes was sore opprest;
And, wrought with divers fittes of feare and love,
He nether can her free nor faultye prove.

Now Sence, the wakefull spie of jelious mynde,
By stronge conjectures deemeth her defilde;
But Love, in dome of thinges best loved, blynde,
Thinkes rather Sence deceiv'd then her with child;
Yet proofes so pregnant were, that no pretence
Could cloake a thinge so cleare and playne to sence.

Then Joseph, daunted with a deadly wounde,
Let loose the reynes to undeserved greife;
His hart did throbb, his eyes in teares were drounde,
His life a losse, death seem'd his best releife;
The pleasing relis of his former love relish
In gallish thoughtes to bitter tast doth prove.

One foote he often setteth forth of doore,
But t'other's loth uncerten wayes to treade;
He takes his fardell for his needefull store,
He casts his inn, where first he meanes to bead;
But still ere he can frame his feete to goe,
Love wynneth tyme till all conclude in noe.

Sometyme, greif addinge force, he doth depart,
He will, against his will, keepe on his pace;
But straight remorse so rackes his ruing hart,
That hasting thoughtes yeld to a pawsing space;
Then mighty reasons presse him to remayne,
She whome he flyes doth winne him home againe.

But when his thought, by sight of his aboade,
Presentes the signe of mysesteemed shame,
Repenting every stepp that backe he trode,
Teares drowne the guides, the tongue the feete doth blame;
Thus warring with himself, a feilde he fightes,
Where every wounde upon the giver lightes.

And was (quoth he) my love so lightly prysed?
And was our sacred league so soone forgott?
Could vowes be voyde, could vertues be despisd?
Could such a spouse be staynd with such a spott?
O wretched Joseph! that hast livd so longe,
Of faithfull love to reape so grevous wronge!

Could such a worme breede in so sweete a wood?
Coulde in so chast demeanure lincke untruth?
Could Vice lye hidd where Vertue's image stoode?
Where hoary sagenes graced tender youthe?
Where can affyance rest, to rest secure?
In Vertue's fayrest seat faithe is not sure.

All proofes did promise hope a pledge of grace,
Whose good might have repaide the deepest ill;
Sweete signes of purest thoughtes in saintly face
Assurd the eye of her unstayned will.
Yett, in this seeminge lustre, seeme to lye
Such crymes for which the lawe condemns to die.

But Josephe's word shall never worke her woe:
I wishe her leave to live, not dome to dye;
Though fortune myne, yett am I not her foe,
She to her self lesse lovinge is then I:
The most I will, the lest I can, is this, least
Sithe none may salve, to shunne that is amisse.

Exile my home, the wildes shall be my walke,
Complainte my joye, my musicke mourninge layes;
With pensive greives in silence will I talke,
Sad thoughtes shalbe my guides in sorowe's wayes:
This course best suites the care of curelesse mynde,
That seekes to loose what moste it joy'd to finde.

Like stocked tree whose braunches all do fade,
Whose leaves do fall and perisht fruite decaie;
Like herb that growes in colde and barrayne shade,
Where darkenes drives all quickninge heate away;
So dye must I, cutt from my roote of joye,
And throwen in darkest shades of deepe annoye.

But who can fly from that his harte doth feele?
What chaunge of place can change implanted payne?
Removinge moves no hardnes from the steele;
Sicke hartes, that shift no fittes, shift roomes in vayne.
Where thought can see, what helpes the closed eye?
Where hart pursues, what gaynes the foote to flye?

Yett still I tredd a maze of doubtfull end;
I goe, I come, she drawes, she drives away;
She woundes, she heales, she doth both marr and mend,
She makes me seeke and shunn, depart and stay;
She is a frende to love, a foe to loathe,
And in suspence I hange betwene them both.