Classic Poem

The pitious complaint of Medea, forsaken of Jason, lively bewraying the slipperie hold in sugred words.

Amid the desart woods I rue and shew my fate,
Exild (O wretch!) from courtly joyes, berest of princes state.
O love! from whence these plagues proceede,
For service true is this thy meede?

What vaileth now my skil, or sight in magicks lore?
May charmed hearbs suffice to help, or cure my festred sore?
A salve I shapt for others smart,
My selfe to ayde I want the arte.

I made the wayward moone against the sunne to strive,
And gastly ghostes from burial graves ful oft I did revive,
To counterchaunge the same with death,
In flowre of youth some yealded breath.

What future harmes insude I shewd to other wights,
And wanted skil for to prevent my present pensive plights.
Why did I leave my native soyle,
In forreine land to have the foyle?

Thy love (O Jason false!) to winne I sparde no-paine,
Although Medeas loyaltie be guerdoned with disdaine:
The goulden fleece thou wert to blame
To beare away, I wonne the same.

But lordly lookes full oft, and slippry service eke,
To harmelesse ladies have beene vowde to catch the suters seeke,
And then depart from plighted othe:
Their sugred woordes yeelde sealdome trothe.

Where be the care esse vowes and feareles othes thou sweare,
When I imbarckt from Colches coast, the mountaine waves did teare?
Where is thy faith, for goulden fleece
To crowne mee queene of famous Greece?

Might not thy traytrous mind, in lue of friendships lore,
Forsake me (wretch!) among my friends, but that with saile and ore
Thou me convaydst to place unknowne,
Amonge wyld beastes to make my mone?

Who gainst their savage kinde do worke me (wretch!) noyll,
But seemes for to lament my case, or else the gods y will
My lothed life should lengthened bee,
To guerdon my iniquitie.