Classic Poem

Alas! our Day is forc'd to flye by nighte!
Light without light, and sunne by silent shade.
O Nature, blushe! that suffrest such a wighte,
That in thy sunne this dark eclipse hath made;
Day to his eyes, light to his steppes denye,
That hates the light which graceth every eye.

Sunne being fledd the starres do leese their light,
And shyninge beames in bloody streames they drenche;
A cruell storme of Herod's mortall spite
Their lives and lightes with bloody shoures doth quench:
The tiran to be sure of murdringe one,
For feare of sparinge Him doth pardon none.

O blessèd babes! first flowers of Christian Springe,
Who though untymely cropt fayre garlandes frame,
With open throates and silent mouthes you singe
His praise, Whome age permitts you not to name;
Your tunes are teares, your instrumentes are swordes,
Your ditye death, and bloode in liew of wordes!