Classic Poem

The pretie Turtle dove that with no litle moane
When she hathe loste her loving make sitts moorninge all alone;
The swanne that alwaies singes an howre before her deathe,
Whose deadlie gryves doe giue the groues that drawe awaie [her] breathe;
The Pellican that pecks the blud out of her brest
And by her deathe doth onlie feede her younge ones in the nest;
The harte emparked cloase within a plotte of grounde,
Who dare not ouerlooke the pale for feare of hunters hounde;
The hounde in kennell tyed that heares the chase goe by,
And bootles wishing foote abroade in vaine doth howle and crye;
The tree with witherde topp, that hathe his braunches deade,
And hangeth downe his highest bowes while other houlde vpp heade;
Endure not half the deathe the sorrowe nor disgrace
That my poore wretched minde abids, where none can waile my case.

For truth hath loste his trust, more dere then turtle doue,
And what a death to suche a life, that suche a paine dothe proue;
The Swan for sorrow singes, to see her deathe so nye,
I die because I see my deathe, and yet I can not dye.
The Pellican doth feede her younge ones with her bludd,
I blede to death to feede desires it doe me neuer good;
My hart emparked rounde, within the grounde of greif,
Is so besett with howndes of hate it lookes for no releif;
And swete desire my dogg is clogged so with care,
He cries and dies to here delightes and come not wher they are;
My tree of true delight is sokde with sorrow soe,
As but the heavnes do sooner helpe wilbe his ouer-throwe;
In summe, my dole, my deathe, and my disgrace is suche
As neuer man that euer lyvde knewe euer halfe so muche.