Classic Poem

Busie Inuention , whie art thou so dull
And yet still doing?
Are no Conceits ensconst within thy Scull
To helpe my woing?
Canst not, with Iudgments aide, once sally out
with Words of power
My Ladies dreaded Forces to disrout
and make way to her?
Or can'st thou vse no Stratagem of Witt
That may entrappe her?
To yeeld vnto Conditions faire, as fitt
els loue enwrappe her?
Fy, Fy, thou lin'st my hedd peece to no end
sith by thy Lyninge
I cannot, in Loues warres, my Witt defend
from soule declyning.
Doth Loue confound thee, that thy Founder is
(Bewitcht Inuention? )
Can she which can but make thee pregnant, misse
of hir intention?
The powers of Witt cannot defend thee then
From Shames confusion;
But must thou die, with shame, and liue agen
By Hopes infusion
Hope , hold my Hart, and Head; for they are sick
Inuention dyeth
Loue-sick they are and neede an Emperick
which Love denieth.
Inuention now doth draw his latest breath
for comfort crying,
Hee dies, and yet, in dying, striues with Death
To liue still dying!
Ring out his knell, for now he quite is dead
Ding, dong, bell, well ronge!
Sing out a Dirge for now hee's buried
Farewell Her , well songe!
This Epitaph fix on his senslesse Head
Here lies Inuention
That stood his louing Master in no steade
In Loues contention
Yet for his Soule (lest it should quite bee dam'd)
Some Dole bestow yee;
Giue my poore Witts (which he hath fowly sham'd)
what he doth owe me
So Mortus, et sepultus now, he is,
Heau'n graunt his rising,
Bee not to vtter darknesse, but to Blisse
of highe Deuising.