Classic Poem

The Senior Fellow.

Saye, cushat, callynge from the brake,
What ayles thee soe to pyne?
Thy carefulle heart shall cease to ache
When dayes be fyne
And greene thynges twyne:
Saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne?

The Dove.

Naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late,
What ayles thee thus to chyde?
My love is fled by garden-gate;
Since Lammas-tyde
I wayte my bryde:
Saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde?

The Senior Fellow.

Loe! I am he, the Lonelie Man,
Of Time forgotten quite,
That no remember'd face may scanne —
Sadde eremyte,
I wayte to-nyghte,
Pale Death, nor any other wyghte.

O, cushat, cushat, callynge lowe,
Goe waken Time from sleepe:
Goe whysper in his ear, that soe
His besom sweepe
Me to that heape
Where all my recollections keepe.

Hath he forgott! Or did I viewe
A ghostlye companye
This even, by the dismalle yewe,
Of faces three
That beckoned me
To land where no repynynges be?

O, Harrye, Harrye, Tom and Dicke,
Each lost companion!
Why loyter I among the quicke
When ye are gone?
Shall I alone
Delayinge cry " Anon, Anon? "

Naye, let the spyder have my gowne,
To brayde therein her veste.
My cappe shal serve, now I goe down,
For mouse's nest.
Loe! this is best.
I care not, soe I gayne my reste.