Classic Poem

As life what is so sweet?
What creature would not choose thee?
The wounded hart doth weep
When he is forced to lose thee,
The bruisèd worm doth strive 'gainst fear of death,
And all choose life with pain ere loss of breath.

The dove which knows no guilt
Weeps for her mate a-dying;
And never any blood was spilt
But left the loser crying.
If swans do sing, it is to crave of Death
He would not reave them of their happy breath.