Classic Poem

Like as the captiue Wight, in chayned lincks doth lye,
And hopes at Sise to be releast, is the condemde to dye.
Euen so alas my lot, by frowning fate doth fall,
That sought to feede on sweete delight, but found most bitter Gall.
My restlesse labor lost, I iustly may compare,
To S ISIPHVS that neuer sleepes, and griefe to T ITIVS care.
For after sundry stormes, when calme I thinke to finde,
More rougher rage a new doth rise, to straine my daunted minde.
And when my quelling cares, I seeke by meanes to cure,
Most deepest dynte of inwarde woe, alas I doe endure.
P ROMETHEVS pincht with payne, nor I XION whyrlde on wheele,
More grypes by griefe doe not sustaine, then I vnhappy feele.
The somme of my vnrest, yet couert will I keepe,
And secretly my sorrowes sup, when others sounde doe sleepe.
To ease my pensyue brest, a Vearse though here I frame,
The bursting forth of sorrows mine, shal breed no further blame.
My sydes shall shryne this smart, my hart shall wast with woe,
Ere I the secrete of my cause, bewray to friend or foe.
Saue onely to the Saint, that swayes my lyfe at wyll,
Whose pittie may prolong the same, or crueltie may kyll.