Classic Poem

My wanton Muse, that whilome wont to sing,
Fair beauty's praise, and Venus' sweet delight;
Of late had changed the tenor of her string,
To higher tunes than serve for Cupid's fight;
Shrill trumpets' sound, sharp swords and lances strong,
War, blood, and death, were matter of her song.

The God of Love by chance had heard thereof,
That I was proved a rebel to his crown;
Fit words for war, quoth he, with angry scoff,
A likely man to write of Mars his frown!
Well are they sped, whose praises he shall write,
Whose wanton pen can nought but love indite.

This said, he whisked his party-coloured wings,
And down to earth he comes more swift than thought
Then to my heart in angry haste he flings,
To see what change these news of wars had wrought:
He pries and looks, and ransacks ev'ry vein,
Yet finds he nought save love and lover's pain.

Then I, that now perceived his needless fear,
With heavy smile began to plead my cause;
In vain, quoth I, this endless grief I bear;
In vain I strive to keep thy grievous laws;
If after proof, so often trusty found,
Unjust suspect condemn me as unsound.

Is this the guerdon of my faithful heart?
Is this the hope on which my life is staid?
Is this the ease of never-ceasing smart?
Is this the price that for my pains is paid?
Yet better serve fierce Mars in bloody field,
Where death, or conquest, end or joy doth yield.

Long have I served: what is my pay but pain?
Oft have I sued: what gain I but delay?
My faithful love is 'quited with disdain;
My grief a game, my pen is made a play:
Yea, Love that doth in other favour find,
In me is counted madness out of kind.

And last of all, but grievous most of all,
Thyself, sweet Love, hath killed me with suspect:
Could Love believe, that I from Love would fall?
Is war of force to make me Love neglect?
No: Cupid knows, my mind is faster set
Than that by war I should my Love forget.

My Muse, indeed, to war inclines her mind,
The famous acts of worthy Brute to write:
To whom the Gods this island's rule assigned,
Which long he sought by seas through Neptune's spite;
With such conceits my busy head doth swell,
But in my heart nought else but Love doth dwell.

And in this war thy part is not the least,
Here shall my Muse, Brute's noble love declare:
Here shalt thou see thy double love increast,
Of fairest twins that ever lady bare.
Let Mars triumph in armour shining bright;
His conquered arms shall be thy triumph's light.

As he the world, so thou shalt him subdue,
And I thy glory through the world will ring;
So be my pains thou wilt vouchsafe to rue,
And kill despair. With that he whisked his wing,
And bade me write, and promised wished rest;
But sore, I fear false hope will be the best.