Classic Poem

Out from the horror of infernal deeps,
My poor afflicted ghost comes here to plain it,
Attended with my shame that never sleeps,
The spot wherewith my kind, and youth did stain it;
My body found a grave where to contain it:
A sheet could hide my face, but not my sin,
For Fame finds neuer Tombe t' inclose it in.

And which is worse, my soul is now denied,
Her transport to the sweet Elysian rest,
The joyful bliss for Ghosts repurified,
The ever-springing Gardens of the blest:
Charon denies me waftage with the rest.
And says my soul can never passe the river,
Till lovers' sighs on earth shall it deliver.

So shall I never pass; for how should I
Procure this sacrifice amongst the living?
Time hath long since worn out the memory
Both of my life, and life's unjust depriving:
Sorrow for me is dead for aye reviving
Rosamond hath little left her but her name,
And that disgraced, for time hath wronged the same.

No Muse suggests the pity of my case;
Each pen doth overpass my just complaint,
Whilst others are preferred, though far more base;
Shore's wife is graced, and passes for a saint;
Her Legend justifies her foul attaint;
Her well-told tale did such compassion find,
That she is passed, and I am left behind.

Which seene with griefe, my miserable ghost,
(Whilom invested in so fair a veil,
Which whilst it lived, was honoured of the most,
And being dead, gives matter to bewail,)
Comes to solicit thee, since others fail)
To take this task, and in thy woeful song
To form my case, and register my wrong.

Although I know thy just lamenting Muse,
Toiled in th' affliction of thine own distress,
In others' cares hath little time to use,
And therefore mayst esteem of mine the less:
Yet as thy hopes attend happy redress,
The joyes depending on a woman's grace,
So move thy mind a woeful woman's case.

Delia may hap to deign to read our story,
And offer up her sighs among the rest,
Whose merit would suffice for both our glory,
Whereby thou mightst be graced and I be blest;
That indulgence would profit me the best.
Such power she hath by whom thy youth is led,
To joy the living, and to bless the dead.

So I, through beauty made the woeful'st wight,
By beauty might have comfort after death:
That dying fairest, by the fairest might
Find life above on earth, and rest beneath.
She that can bless us with one happy breath,
Give comfort to thy Muse to do her best,
That thereby thou mayst joy, and I might rest.

Thus said: forthwith moved with a tender care,
And pity, which myself could never find,
What she desired, my Muse deigned to declare,
And therefore, willed her boldly tell her mind.
And I more willing took this charge assigned,
Because her griefs were worthy to be known,
And telling hers, might hap forget mine own.