Classic Poem

A secret murder hath been done of late,
Unkindness found to be the bloody knife;
And she that did the deed a dame of state,
Fair, gracious, wise, as any beareth life.

To quit herself this answer did she make:
" Mistrust," quoth she, " hath brought him to his end,
Which makes the man so much himself mistake,
To lay the guilt unto his guiltless friend."

Lady, not so; not feared I found my death,
For no desert thus murdered is my mind;
And yet before I yield my fainting breath,
I quit the killer, though I blame the kind.

You kill unkind, I die, and yet am true,
For at your sight my wound doth bleed anew.