Classic Poem

G. W. to the signe of the brasen bell

And not without desart I thee a tyrant call,
Which, save a scorne, thou madst of me to eache mishape art thrall:
Thy credite is the church, O false unfriendly bell!
When as thou soundest the marridge joyes, or ringst the carefull knell.
The souldier in distresse by the[e] alarum makes,
And when good hap doth him advaunce, thy sides he rudely shakes,
Digressing from his state to toyle of baser chaunce.
A thrall thou art to Hick and Steven in every morris daunce.
The hinde doth decke his horse with belles to make him free;
The harmelesse foole upon his cap doth make a scorne of thee.
Besides, to savage beastes a servile slave thou restes,
The deintie dog in ladies lap is jueld with thy jestes.
The mounting faulcon lost bewrayes by thee her stande,
By thee the hobby dares the larke before he well be mande.
Of yore this phrase I learnd, when things ne framed well,
A capcase for the foole to call a cockscomb and a bell,
Then canst that thus arte scorned, besides thy servile strokes,
A tryumph make upon his teares, whom love ne lust provokes.
To like thy maistresse lookes, and love her as his life,
Who wel is bent to quite thy toyle when stinted is his strife:
He sure would thee advaunce from brasse to glittering golde,
If that by pearcing peales thou wouldst his sorrowes once unfolde.
Thou seest what sighes I sende, and howe my suites be payd:
Thou seest my maistresse smyle with grace, and graunt she earst denayd,
Thou seest me Cupids thrall, her love in league with hate;
Thou seest my blisse is wayd with bale, when wrath doth weave debate;
Thou seest my greatest ioyes are counterpeisde with paine,
Thou seest my myrth is mixt with mone when jealousie doth reigne;
Yet when she smyles thou spar'st my sorrowes to deface,
And when she frownes thou fearst to speake to winne her wonted grace.
Well, sith through feare or scorne thou lettst me languish still,
I present now will plead for grace to winne my wished will.
And first, good tong, prepare to tell a lovers tale,
Sound foorth my joyes, advaun'st by hope, by dyre despaire my bale;
And when mistrust infectes my ladies hautie hart,
Then, scalding sighes, give you the charge to shew my ceaselesse smart.
But if she lift to toy, and smyle with friendly face,
With easie force then, armes, assay thy maistresse to imbrace.
Then sorrowe seeke revenge upon her ruby lips,
Then wounded hart receive the cure of cruell Cupids nips.
Thus forward vaunce your selves the maister griefes to wray
The silent man still suffers wrong, the proverbe olde doth say;
And where adventure wants, the wishing wight ne thrives.
Faint heart, hath ben a common phrase, faire lady never wives.