Classic Poem

I that whilom lived secure,
And spent my days in joy;
I that thought this life most sure,
And death was but a toy;
Ay me, poor soul!
Vain hope did me deceive,
For I this life must leave;
Go, cause the bell to toll!

Hie, good maid, lay down the bed,
And draw the curtains round;
Tell the world that I am dead,
And eke who gave the wound;
Ay me, poor soul!
Alas! for love I die;
Good gentle nephew, hie,
Go, cause the bell to toll!

I am young and I am fair,
And yet I am disdained;
I love him that doth not care
How sore my heart be pained;
Ay me, poor soul!
To think on this disdain,
It cuts my heart in twain;
Go, cause the bell to toll!

Some for me do feel like pain,
And think no grief like theirs;
Thus, I see, Love rules and reigns,
And feeds with hopes and fears;
Ay me, poor soul!
But none more wronged than I;
Come, death, and let me die;
Go, cause the bell to toll!

Ere I die, this will I make,
Which will shall still abide.
God, I hope, will not forsake
My soul, for which he died;
Ay me, poor soul!
My body I bequeath
Unto the earth beneath;
For now the bell doth toll.

I bequeath my turtle dove
Unto the virgins all;
I bequeath to you my love,
Whose love to me is small;
Ay me, poor soul!
My heart, I think, will break,
I may no longer speak;
For now the bell doth toll.

I bequeath to Vesta queen
My chaste virginity;
I bequeath my gown of green
To maids of high degree;
Ay me, poor soul!
And all my rings and pearls
Unto the younger girls;
For now the bell doth toll.

I bequeath my Golden Book
Unto the Golden Fleece;
I bequeath my cripping hook
Unto my little niece;
Ay me, poor soul!
And all my vellet bonnets,
With all my songs and sonnets;
For now the bell doth toll.

I bequeath unto the poor
My prayers and my tears;
I bequeath the rich no more
Than bounty, Nestor's years;
Ay me, poor soul!
My debtors and my foes
I do forgive and loose;
For now the bell doth toll.

Come to me, ye fair young maids,
And bear these words in mind;
Youth decays and beauty fades,
And true love is hard to find;
Ay me, poor soul!
Though beauty make you trim,
Yet death will make you grim,
Even when the bell doth toll.

Now adieu ten thousand times,
False love, false world, and all;
Though not I, yet these my rhymes,
Fair maids, possess you shall,
And nothing else.
My life is not mine own,
My soul away is flown;
Go, ring out all the bells!