Classic Poem

If men may waile their losse, that death hath ridde from woe,
Then give mee leave to weepe my fill, my sorrowes so to showe:
And though to bathe in teares small botes, now hee is gone,
Yet none can leave so firme a friend, and showe no signe of mone.
When brainesicke I a bruse with over bravery caught,
Hee first did cure my neede with coyne, then soundly thus mee taught.
Bee stayde: for rowling stones do sildome gather mosse:
I tryde his ayde, I likt his wordes, and still shall rue his losse.
His losse not I alone, but thousands more lament,
His children, friends, and servaunts poore, with brackish teares are sprent.
But oh! you sillie poore, whom neede doth nip and pearce,
With hart, with hand, with might and maine, your heapes of woe rehearse.
Crye out of cruell death for reaving your reliefe:
You are the wightes that have (God wott) the greatest cause of griefe.
When hunger faintes your heartes, when you with cold shall frease,
The lacke of Ayleworths foode and fire your starved limms to ease.
When might would marre your right, his counsell sound and sure,
His open purse to pleade your cause, the paines he put in ure.
When you (poore soules) shall misse with him that was your stay,
Then shall your griefes appeare as greene as hee had dyde to day.
These were his fruites of faith, these almes hee did of zeale:
Hee wayde no showe, his woordes in workes the Gospell did reveale.