Classic Poem

Marina's gone, and now sit I,
As Philomela (on a thorne,
Turn'd out of nature's livery),
Mirthless, alone, and all forlorne:
Onely she sings not, while my sorrowes can
Breathe forth such notes as fit a dying swan.

Soe shuts the marigold her leaves
At the departure of the sun;
Soe from the hony-suckle sheaves
The bee goes when the day is done;
So sits the turtle when she is but one,
And soe all woe, as I, since she is gone.

To some fewe birds, kinde Nature hath
Made all the summer as one daye;
Which once enjoy'd, colde winter's wrath,
As night, they sleeping passe away.
Those happy creatures are, that knowe not yet
The payne to be depriv'd or to forget.

I oft have heard men saye there be
Some, that with confidence professe
The helpfull Art of Memorie;
But could they teach forgetfulnesse,
I'd learne, and try what further art could doe,
To make me love her and forget her too.

Sad melancholy, that persuades
Men from themselves, to thinke they be
Headlesse, or other bodyes shades,
Hath long and bootless dwelt with me;
For coulde I thinke she some idea were,
I still might love, forget, and have her here.

But such she is not: nor would I,
For twice as many torments more,
As her bereaved company
Hath brought to those I felt before,
For then no future tyme might hap to knowe
That she deserv'd, or I did love her soe.

From faire Aurora will I reare
My selfe unto the source of floods;
And from the Ethiopian Beare,
To him as white as snowy woods;
Nor shall I feare (for this daye taking flight)
To be wounde up in any veil of night.

Of Death I may not feare the dart,
As is the use of Human State;
For well I knowe my better part
Dreads not the hand of Time or Fate.
Tremble at Death, Envye, and Fortune who
Have but one life: Heaven gives a Poet two.

All costly obsequies inveigh,
Marble and painting too, as vayne;
My ashes shall not meet with Clay,
As those doe of the vulgar trayne.
And if my Muse to Spensers glory come
No King shall owne my verses for his Tombe.