Classic Poem

To my prowd foe thus, sister, humblie saye:
I with the Grekes in the port Aulide
Conjured not, the Troianes to destroie;
Nor to the walls of Troie yet sent my fleete;
Nor cynders of his father Anchises
Disturbed, aye owt of his sepulture.
Whie lettes he not my wordes synk in his eares
So hard for to intreat? whither whorles he?
This last boone yet graunte he to wretched love:
Prosperous windes for to depart with ease
Let him abide. The foresaid marriage now,
That he betraide, I do not him requyer,
Nor that he shuld faire Italie forgoe;
Nether I woold he shuld his kingdome leave;
Quiet I aske, and a tyme of delaye,
And respite eke my furie to aswage,
Till my mishappe teach me, all comefortles,
How for to waile my greif. This latter grace,
Sister, I crave; have thow remorse of me!
Which, if thow shalt vouchsafe, with heapes I shall
Leave by my dethe well rendred unto the.’