Classic Poem

My Harte upon his Deathbed, sicke, did lye,
Calling upon proude ALBA but in vaine;
Too Cruell she, (for pittie) it did crie,
Yet had Repulse through Rigor of Disdaine.
 So as to live thus (long) it could not bide,
 But soone gave up the Ghost, and so he dide.

Then to the Chappell of bad Fortune harde,
By smoking sighes it quickelie was convaide,
A place for these sad Funerals preparde,
Where in a Tombe of Loyaltie t'was laide.
 Anger, Suspect, Griefe, Sorow, Care, and Feare,
 With dismall Doubtes, the chiefest Mourners were.

About the Hierce, great store of Teares were shed;
The Torches that did burne so cleare and bright,
Were ALBAS eyes by Crueltie misled,
Whilest she triumpht to see so wofull sight.
 Pittie the Dirge did sing with wofull Plaint,
 Assisted with a blacke and dismall Saunt.

Upon the Monument yplaced was,
Fire, Sworde, and Corde, with Arrowes sharpe and keene,
The Epitaph (for such as by should pas)
Was thus subscribde, and carved to be seene.
 Loe here that gentle Hart entombde doth lie,
 Whom cruell ALBA causeles, forst to die.