Classic Poem

The Rose both White and Red
In one Rose now doth grow:
Thus thorough every stead
Thereof the fame doth blow.
Grace the seed did sow:
England, now gather floures,
Exclude now all doloures.

Noble Henry the Eight,
Thy loving sovereign lord,
Of kinges line most straight
His title doth record:
In whom doth well accord
Alexis young of age,
Adrastus wise and sage,

Astrea, Justice hight,
That from the starry sky
Shall now come and do right.
This hundred year scantly
A man could not espy
That Right dwelt us among,
And that was the more wrong.

Right shall the foxes chare,
The wolves, the beares alsó,
That wrought have muche care,
And brought Engeland in woe:
They shall worry no mo,
Nor root the Rosary
By extort treachery.

Of this our noble king
The law they shall not break;
They shall come to reckoníng;
No man for them will speak:
The people durst not creke
Their griefes to complain,
They brought them in such pain.

Therefore no more they shall
The commons overbace,
That wont were over all
Both lord and knight to face:
For now the years of grace
And wealth are come again,
That maketh England fain.

Adonis of fresh colóur,
Of youth the goodly floure,
Our prince of high honóur,
Our paves, our succóur,
Our king, our emperóur,
Our Priamus of Troy,
Our wealth, our worldly joy:

Upon us he doth reign,
That maketh our heartes glad,
As king most sovereign
That ever England had;
Demure, sober, and sad,
And Mars's lusty knight;
God save him in his right!