Classic Poem

Dom Diego his triumphe.

Who can report that never tasted bale
What difference is tweene sorrow and delite?
And who may tell a more triumphant tale
Then hee in joy that late was kept in spite?
I am the man; in mone there was none such:
My mone is past, my mirth must be as much.

Sith so alone I rule in throne of joy,
Of pleasures mount I weald the golden mace,
Then leave to bragge, you princes proud of Troy,
Your brayd delights by mee can have no place;
Once beautes blisse to vaunt doth make you bould,
I have such hap, and tenne times more in hould.

And, by your leave, your ladies blemisht are:
Aske Theseus, who first lopt fayre Hellens love:
Syr Diomede, the spoile of Troylus ware,
Suppose them true whom none could ever prove,
Your lightning joyes such lasting woes did brue,
As you may wish your fames to die with you.

But, lady mine, I wrong thee much in this,
To peize thy praise with such as livde or live;
For natures toile some wayes disabled is,
Shee frames our forme, but can no fortune give;
But thou wert shapt (for feare of fortunes spight)
Of precious moold by force of heavenly might.

By heavenly might, and worthie well such toyle,
Whose lively limms the Indian riches showe:
Her haire fine gold, her front doth yvorie foyle,
Her eyes give light as diamonds there did grow;
Her words of worth (as cause doth cause her speake)
Tweene rockes of pearle their pleasaunt passage breake.

What should I say? of truth, from top too to
These precious gems in beautie shee doth staine,
And more then that (besides the outward sho)
Their vertues shee with vauntage doth retaine;
So that of force, I (forft) must her define
Not bound to kinde, but wholy is divine.

Thrise happie man (whose love this saint did lure)
Dom Diego late, even very wretchednesse,
Now maist thou vaunt (thy vauntage is so sure)
That none alive thy pleasures halfe possesse.
Through chaunce of love do thousands chaunce on death,
But dying I, my love inlargde my breath.

The scource of woe is savourie sauce to taste,
Our sweete delights, if once delight wee feele,
The rough repulse (if battring tyre be plaste)
Amends the spoile when walles (perforce) do reele:
Of every thinge the goodnes doth increase,
If once afore the losse did us distresse.

Sufficient proofe my lingring love can shoe:
I tyred hope ere time my truth could trie,
Yea, desperate wretch, forworne with wreake of woe,
I left my sute and sought the meane to die;
Now winning her, whose want wrought such annoy,
On former griefes I grast my fruites of joy.

In waxe, say I, men easily grave their will,
In marble stone the woorke with paine is wonne,
But perfect once, the print remaineth still,
When waxen seales with every browse are donne:
Even so in love, soone wonne, as soone is loste,
When forst through faith it bydes both fire and frost.

I can not vaunt of easie conquerd love:
I graunt with faith I foyle Genevras scorne,
But now in peace, distrust shall never move
One jelous thought of wilde Acteons horne;
And yet, forsooth, this feare hee liveth in,
To lose the wight with words, that words did win.

O happie love! whose torments prove so sweete;
O friendly foes! whose treason tride my trueth;
O luckie man! Dom Roderic to meete:
Genevra thou, thrise honord for thy ruth,
Thou, onely thou (the rest of small availe)
Didst save my life, when hope and all did faile.

Now forth I throw my gauntlet for this grace,
To chalenge such as seeke to foile thy same,
For sure the armes that durst my sweete imbrace,
Dares to defend the honour of her name;
If which I faile, in prison let me sterve,
So doome my fault, for so I should deserve.