Classic Poem

The worlds affection now this tragick tryall proues,
Heauen heapes mishaps vpon his head, whom it not lightly moues.
But though the weight be great, which makes each hart to bow,
That men when mad, rage not so much as reason doth allow:
And that (thryse royall syre) since that it first was knowne,
All by imagining your griefe haue doubled so their owne.
Yet since to many due, waste not on one your cares,
As all your subjects waile your state, haue pitie, sir, on theirs.
Least that this griefe though great, a greater doe out-goe,
If from your sonne turn'd to your selfe, you eeke, not end our wo.