Classic Poem

Disancred from a blisfull shore,
And lanch'd into the maygne of cares;
Groune rich in vice, in vertewe pore,
From freedome falne in fatall snares;

I founde my selfe on every syde
Enwrappèd in the waves of woe,
And, tossèd with a toylsome tyde,
Could to no port for refuge goe.

The wrastling wyndes with raging blasts,
Still holde me in a crewell chase;
They breake my ankers, sayles and mastes,
Permitting no reposing place.

The boystrous seas, with swelling fludds,
On every syde did worke theire spyte,
Heaven, overcast with stormy cloudes,
Deny'd the planets' guyding lyght.

The hellishe furyes laye in wayte
To wynn my soule into theire poure,
To make me byte at everye bayte,
Wherein my bane I might devoure.

Thus heaven and hell, thus sea and land,
Thus stormes and tempests did conspire,
With just revenge of scourging hand,
To witnesse God's deservèd ire.

I, plungèd in this heavye plyght,
Founde in my faltes just cause of feare;
By darkness taught to knowe my light,
The loss thereof enforcèd teares.

I felt my inwarde-bleeding soares,
My festred wounds beganne to smart,
Stept farr within deathe's fatall dores,
The pangues thereof were neere my hart.

I cryèd truce, I cravèd peace,
A league with death I woulde conclude;
But vaine it was to sue release,
Subdue I must or bee subdude.

Death and deceite had pitch'd theire snares,
And putt theire wicked proofes in ure,
To sincke me in despayring cares,
Or make me stoupe to pleasure's lure.

They sought by theire bewitching charmes
So to enchant my erring sense,
That when they sought my greatest harmes,
I might neglect my best defense.

My dazeled eyes coulde take no vew,
No heed of theire deceiving shiftes,
So often did they alter hew,
And practise new-devisèd driftes.

With Syren's songs they fedd my eares,
Till, lul'd asleepe in Error's lapp,
I found these tunes turn'd into teares,
And short delightes to long mishapp.

For I entysèd to theire lore,
And soothèd with theire idle toyes,
Was traynèd to theire prison dore—
The end of all such flying joyes.

Where cheyn'd in synn I lay in thrall,
Next to the dungeon of despaire,
Till Mercy raysd me from my fall,
And Grace my ruines did repaire.