Classic Poem

Nor is it griev'd ( graue youth ) the memory
Of such a Story, such a Booke as Hee ,
That such a Coppy through the world were read,
Henry yet liues, Though he be buried.
It could be wish'd, that every Eye might beare
His eare good witnesse that he still were here;
That sorrow rul'd the yeare, and by that Sunne
Each man could tell you how the day had runne:
O'twere an honest boast, for him could say,
I haue bin busy, and wept out the day
Remembring him. An Epitaph would last,
Were such a trophee, such a banner, plac't
Upon His Coarse as this; here a man lyes
Was slaine by Henryes dart, not Destinyes .
Why, this were medicinable, & would heale,
Though the whole languish't, halfe the common-weale.
But for a Cobler to goe burne his Capp,
And cry, the Prince , the Prince , O dire mishappe!
Or a Geneva-bridegroome , after grace,
To throw his Spouse i' th' fire; or scratch her face
To th' tune of th' lamentation ; or delay
His Friday Capon till the Sabbath day:
Or an old Popish-Lady , halfe vow-dead,
To fast away the day in Ginger-bread :
For him to write such Annalls; all these things
Doe open Laughters , & shutt up griefes springs.
Tell mee, what iuster, or more congruous Peere
Then Ale , to judge of workes begott of Beere?
Wherefore forbeare or, if thou print the next,
Bring Better Notes, or take a Meaner text.