Classic Poem

Fly, fly, my friends. I have my death wound, fly;
See there that boy, that murthering boy, I say,
Who, like a thief hid in dark bush, doth lie,
Till bloody bullet get him wrongful prey.
So tyrant he no fitter place could spy,
Nor so fair level in so secret stay,
As that sweet black which veils the heavenly eye;
There himself with his shot he close doth lay.
Poor passenger, pass now thereby I did,
And stayed, pleased with the prospect of the place,
While that black hue from me the bad guest hid;
But straight I saw motions of lightning grace,
And then descried the glistering of his dart,
But ere I could fly thence, it pierced my heart.