Classic Poem

Yf thow desire to trye
thy courage hye
Accustomde to the fielde;
Yff yonge Julus mynde
be so enclynde
To use his conqueringe sheilde.

Ye neede not wander farr
to search for warr
We daylye have alarmes;
Heare may yow finde and seeke
what best yow leeke
Off peace or els of Armes.

Remorce of the I crave
which let me have
For heavenly Cupids sake!
Even for thy fathers ghoste
which lovde the moste
For Gods love pitty take.

Which yff to doe thow daine
the and thy traine
Lett all good fortune guyde:
And let that Trojan foyle
be the last toyle
That ever thow shalt byde.

And let thy lovely Sonn
his race longe runn
With happe and honor blest:
Thy Fathers bones to have
a royall grave
Where they in peace may rest.

Be thow my deare more kinde
and call to mynde
The tale thow dydst me tell:
What fault findst thow with me
Except ytt bee
For lovynge the so well?

Poore wench I am no Greeke
that came to seeke
The spoile of Priams crowne;
My spouse, nor yet my Syre,
helpt not to fyre,
Thy warlyke worthy towne.

Yff me thy wife to name
thow hould a shame
Thyne Hostes doe me call;
So I with the remayne
I nought disdaine,
What still I have withall.

By proofe we fynde it soe
somme wynds that blowe
Doe never certaine byde.
And lesse your skill be good
off wynde and flood
Yow stryve against the tyde.

When fitter wyndes then theise
shall serve the Seas
In good howre hoyse thy sayle:
Meane while thy fleete may staye
in quiet Baye
The more for thy avayle.

Then yf thow so be bent
I will consent
And farder thy pretence;
To see thy Navye drest
Ile doe my best
And helpe thy partinge hence.

As yet thy menn of warr
with travyll farr
Are weake with watchinge toyle;
Thy Shipps not rygd for the
as they may bee
Iff thow but stay a while.

For those thy pleasures paste
which to thy laste
Should holde me in thy grace:
And for thy Hollye vowes
to be my spouse
Abyde a longer space.

That whilst highe winds that blowe
doe fall more lowe,
And cleare the lowringe skies:
Meane while this gryfe of myne
by tract off tyme
May bee asswagde lykwise.

Iff not I meane with speade
to doe the deade
That shall thy spite abate:
O that thow couldst arighte
conceave the sighte
Off me in this harde state

Myne eyes lyke clowdye showres
that down right powres
Thy Trojan sworde hath bainde;
But streyght that blade of thine
in steade off bryne
With bloode shall be dystainde.

Good gods how well with me
thy gifts agree
To wreak and worke my will;
Thow gavst with yll entent
this Instrument
My selfe therewith to kill.

This stroke which me doth wounde
shall not be founde
Allonely in my Harte;
For off thy fatall love
my Soule dyd prove
A former deadly darte.

Deare Sister Ann that arte
of this my smarte
A wittnes to thy wooe;
Uppon this wrack of myne
those Eyes off thyne
Shall faithfull teares bestowe.

And when my Tombe is frambde
lett not be namde
Sicheus Dido deare;
But only on my Hearse
this heavy vearse
Deepe graven shall appeare.

The fault Æneas made,
and gave the Blade,
Bothe causes off my death:
But desperatt Dido
gave the blowe,
That refte her selfe of breath.