Classic Poem

" She thus; when I had great desire to prove
My armes the circle where her soule did move.
Thrice prov'd I, thrice she vanisht like a sleepe
Or fleeting shadow, which strooke much more deepe
The wounds my woes made, and made aske her why
She would my Love to her embraces flie,
And not vouchsarfe that even in hell we might
Pay pious Nature her unalterd right,
And give Vexation here her cruell fill?
" Should not the Queene here, to augment the ill
Of ever sufferance (which her office is),
Enforce thy idoll to affoord me this? "

" " O Sonne, " she answerd, " of the race of men
The most unhappy, our most equall Queene
Will mocke no solide armes with empty shade,
Nor suffer empty shades againe t'invade
Flesh, bones, and nerves; nor will defraud the fire
Of his last dues, that, soone as spirits expire
And leave the white bone, are his native right,
When, like a dreame, the soule assumes her flight.
The light then of the living with most haste,
O Sonne, contend to: this thy little taste
Of this state is enought; and all this life
Will make a tale fit to be told thy wife. "