Classic Poem

Why doe I quake my down-fall to reporte?
Tell on my ghost, the storie of my woe,
The King commaunds, I must depart the court,
I aske no question, he will have it so:
The Lyons roring, lesser beastes doe feare,
The greatest flye, when he approacheth neare.

My Prince is now appointed to his guarde,
As from a traytor he is kept from me,
My banishment already is preparde,
Away I must, there is no remedie:
On paine of death I may no longer stay,
Such is revenge which brooketh no delaye.

The skies with cloudes are all invelloped,
The pitchie fogs eclipse my cheerfull Sunne,
The geatie night hath all her curtaines spred
And all the ayre with vapours overrun:
Wanting those rayes whose cleernes lent me light,
My sun-shine day is turn'd to black-fac'd night.

Like to the birde of Ledaes lemmans die,
Beating his breast against the silver streame,
The fatall prophet of his destinie,
With mourning chants, his death approaching theame:
So now I sing the dirges of my fall,
The Anthemes of my fatall funerall.

Or as the faithfull Turtle for her make
Whose youth enjoyed her deere virginitie,
Sits shrouded in some melancholie brake
Chirping forth accents of her miserie,
Thus halfe distracted sitting all alone,
With speaking sighs, to utter forth my mone.

My bewtie s'dayning to behold the light
Now weather-beaten with a thousand stormes,
My daintie lims must travaile day and night,
Which oft were lulde in princely Edwards armes,
Those eyes where bewtie sate in all her pride,
With fearefull objects fild on every side.

The Prince so much astonisht with the blowe,
So that it seem'd as yet he felt no paine,
Untill at length awakned by his woe,
He sawe the wound by which his joyes were slaine,
His cares fresh bleeding fainting more and more,
No Cataplasma now to cure the sore.

Why doe I quake my down-fall to reporte?
Tell on my ghost, the storie of my woe,
The King commaunds, I must depart the court,
I aske no question, he will have it so:
The Lyons roring, lesser beastes doe feare,
The greatest flye, when he approacheth neare.

My Prince is now appointed to his guarde,
As from a traytor he is kept from me,
My banishment already is preparde,
Away I must, there is no remedie:
On paine of death I may no longer stay,
Such is revenge which brooketh no delaye.

The skies with cloudes are all invelloped,
The pitchie fogs eclipse my cheerfull Sunne,
The geatie night hath all her curtaines spred
And all the ayre with vapours overrun:
Wanting those rayes whose deernes lent me light,
My sun-shine day is turn'd to black-fac'd night.

Like to the birde of Ledaes lemmans die,
Beating his breast against the silver streame,
The fatall prophet of his destinie,
With mourning chants, his death approching theame:
So now I sing the dirges of my fall,
The Anthemes of my fatall funerall.

Or as the faithfull Turtle for her make
Whose youth enjoyed her deere virginitie,
Sits shrouded in some melancholie brake
Chirping forth accents of her miserie,
Thus halfe distracted sitting all alone,
With speaking sighs, to utter forth my mone.

My bewties' dayning to behold the light
Now weather-beaten with a thousand stormes,
My daintie lims must travaile day and night,
Which oft were lulde in princely Edwards armes,
Those eyes where bewtie sate in all her pride,
With fearefull objects fild on every side.

The Prince so much astonisht with the blowe,
So that it seem'd as yet he felt no paine,
Until at length awakned by his woe,
He sawe the wound by which his joyes were slaine,
His cares fresh bleeding fainting more and more,
No Cataplasma now to cure the sore.