Classic Poem

E MONGE the woes of those vnhappie wightes
That haue sett downe the sorrowes of their time;
Whos lyves are lefte devoide of all delightes
And passe in greif the pleasure of their prime;
Lett me discourse the secrett of my care
More then conceite or sorrow can declare.

Surnme loose their welthe it is a slender losse
My lif hath lost the treasure of my trust;
Summe loose their helth, (alas) a common crosse
My life's delight is buried in the duste;
Summe loose their frendes, it is not one man's woe
I lost a frende such one there are no moe.

Summe loose their loue, a sorrow nere the harte
In kinde affect the onlie cross of crosses;
Summe loose their lives, where sorowes neuer parte,
Summe loose themselves in thinking of their losses;
More then myself is such a frende berefte me
As welth nor health nor loue nor lif hath lefte me.

And shall I tell what kinde of man hee was
Whom thus I lovde, and neuer creature hated?
Imagine firste it doth my reason passe
To write of him whom highest powre created
For euery parte that vertue had desired:
Ioye of the heavnes and of the world admired.

Yitt as my hart for grefe and sorrow can
I will describe the substance of his state;
In childishe yeeres he was estemde a man
And halfe a man, more halfe a magistrate;
And whom the Artes and Muses so attended
As all in all by all he was commended.

Whos wisdome was not spent in wanton toyes
And thoughe no wanton, yett not voyd of witt;
Of worldly jestes hee neuer made his joyes
Although sumtime hee had a tast of itt;
For lett the best that liues do what he can
In summe thinges yitt he shewes he was a man.

But if on earth there were a man divine
For Nature's guiftes and Vertue's secrette grace;
Then giue me leave so saie this love of mine
Was heere to good to haue a dwellinge place:
But liues in heavne in some hye angell's office
Wher God Himself doth vse him in His service.

To saie yitt more what in effect he was,
Let this suffice in summe, he was a man
Whose heavnly wisdome found the way to passe
More then the powre of witt or reason can;
In whose attemptes the world thus well dyd know him
Nothing but death cold euer ouerthrow him.

Comely of shape, and of a manly face,
Noble in birthe, and of a princelie mind;
Kinde in affecte, and of a courtly grace,
Curteous to all, and carfull of the kind;
Valure and vertue, learning, beauty, love,
These were the partes that dyd his honor prove.

Whos full perfeccon thus hath wisdome peised,
His wordes were euer substance and his deedes divine;
Reason the ground whereon his hope was raised
Labor his life, and learning was his lyne;
Truth was his love, and tryall his intente,
Care his conceite and honor his contente.

Hee spake no word but carede full his weight
Hee nothing did that euer tooke disgrace;
Hee had no minde to muse vpon deceite.
Hee builte in heavne his only byding place;
Hee loude the Churche, wher saintes do build the steple
And sought the world where angells are the people.

Hee travaild farre, when hee was neerest home
Where was no earthe, hee colde beholde a land;
Hee sawe a house, without or lyme or lome,
And saild the seas wher ther was neuer sande;
Hee sounded depthes without or lyne or leade
And found out lif where other men were dead.

Hee fearde no foe, nor euer sought a frende,
Hee knew no want, and made no care of welthe;
Hee nought begon but had a care to ende
And neuer lovde the honor had in stelthe;
By fyer and sworde he wonne his worthy fame
That hathe advauncde the honor of his name.

In all the skye hee honourde but a starre,
That was the course of all his kind affecon;
Whos flame was neere althoughe the fyer afarre
Gaue him the light of [his true] loue's direchon;
Hee was so kinde and constant where he lovde
As once resolvde he colde not be removde.

His hand was free to helpe the needle harte,
His harte was francke to fill the empty hande;
His most desire was to reward desarte
And hold vp state wher honor colde not stand;
His onely joye was honor of the feilde,
To conquer men and make the captaine yelde.

Muche was his care and of his country moste
Litle his wantes and in himselfe the leaste:
All for his friend did seme but litle cost
Yitt to himselfe a litle was a feaste;
Highe was their happ that might be but aboute him
Death is their life that morne to be without him.

Now judge the life in leaving suche a joye
The deathe, in losse of suche a dainty frende;
What may remove the roote of his annoye
Or how this greif may euer haue an ende?
And if it be a care incurable,
Thinke of the death where it is durable.

To liue in death is but a dying life,
To die in life is but a lyvinge deathe;
Betwixte these two is suche a deadly strife
As makes me drawe this melancholicke breath;
Wherein conceite doth liue so discontented
As neuer harte was euer so tormented.

A torment only made but by the mind,
A minde ordeinde but only to distresse;
And suche distres as can no comfort find
But leaves the harte to dy remidyles;
And suche a deathe as liueth to beholde
Ten thowsande tormentes more then can be tolde.

Yitt thoughe my pen can neuer halfe expresse
The hideous tormentes of my heavy harte;
Lett me set downe summe truthe of my distresse
That some poore soule may helpe to beare a parte;
That in extremes when wee are woe begon
The world maie weepe to sitt and looke vpon.

Nature and Arte are gott about his grave,
And there sitt waylinge of eche other's losse;
Hard by the tombe sitts Sorrow in her cave,
Cutting her hart to think of honor's crosse;
And Wisdome weepinge wringing of her handes
To shew the world in what a case it standes.

In this darke hold of death and heavines
Sitts wofull Beawtie with her blubberd eyes;
By her sitts Loue with care all comfortles
Recording of his mother's miseryes;
Emonge the reste that waile the losse of freendes
Sitts Pacience picking of her finger endes.

From Pittie's face do fall the tricklinge teares
Of tormentes suche as teare the hart of loue;
The Muses sitt and rende their shrivled heares,
To see the plume that loue and beawtie proue;
Emonge them all howe I am torne asunder
And yitt do liue: confesse it is a wounder.

I liue, I liue! alas, I liue in deede,
But suche a life was neuer suche a deathe;
While fainting hart is but constrainde to feede
Vpon the care of a consuming breathe;
Oh my sweete Muse, that knowst how I am vexed
Paincte but one passion how I am perplexed.

I call for death but yitt she will not heere me
I reede my deathe, and rue my destinie;
I see my death, but hee will not come nere me
I feele my deathe and yitt I cannot dye
But where noe death will kill nor grefe be cured
Thinke what a death of deathes I haue endured.

Yitt while I lyve in all this misery,
Lett me goe quarrell with this cruell fate;
Wher death sholde do so great an iniury
Vnto the staye of suche a happie state;
At lyving thinges to make his levell soe,
To kill a phaenix where there were no moe.

Oh cruell Death, what lead thy hand awrye
To take the best and leave the wurste behind?
To youthe thou art vntimely destinie,
Thou mightest haue bene a comfort to the blind;
And ende the aged of their weary tyme,
And not a youth in pride of all his prime.

Thou moughtst haue shott at suche a wretched lought
As had past ouer all his pleasant yeres;
And kild the hart that is consumde to nought
With being tangled in these worldly breres;
But Beawtie's loue and Honor's harte to bleed
Fie on the[e] Death it is to[o] foule a deed.

But well the world will curse the[e] to thy face,
Beawtie and Loue will to thy teethe defie thee;
Honor and Learninge drive thee in disgrace,
Wher no good thought shall euer once come nigh thee;
And soe my selfe to shewe that woe begon thee,
Will praye to God all plagues maie light vpon ye

For I haue loste the honor of my love
My loue hath loste the honor of my life;
My life and loue do suche a passion prove
As in the world was neuer such a strife;
Where secrett death and sorrow are contented
To [wail in] terror of a harte tormented.

Thou camst to[o] soone, but now thou cumst to[o] late
Thy force to[o] great but now it is to[o] small;
Halfe had in loue but wholy now in hate,
Desirde of sumnie but cursed now of all;
Oft I confes that I haue quaked before thee,
But doe thy wurst Death now I care not for thee.

But dost thow thinke thou canst thy selfe excuse
To sinn (alas) thou hast but done thy office;
Vnhappie hande, whom so the heavnes do vse
On suche a sainte to execute thy service:
But since it was the will of God to doe it:
His will be done I can but yeld vnto it.

Yett for the care that Vertue hath conceiued
For losse of him that was her deerest love;
And for the death that Honor hath receiued
Where pacience dothe the deadly passion prove;
I can not chuse althoughe my hart wold hide itt
But shew my greif so great I cannot hide it.

Oh that I had but so divine a head
As colde bewray the sorrows of my-brest!
Or from the grave to raise againe the dead
And not offend my God in my request;
Or by a prayre I might the grace obtaine
To see the face of my desire againe.

But all is vaine, my wishes not availe,
My wordes are winde and cary no effecte;
And with the greif I feele my sences faile,
That fortune thus sholde crosse me in effecte
As by the losse of our sweete heavnely frend
My hart shold dye and yitt not dolor end.

Ende? No God wott, there is no end of greif
Where sad conceite will neuer out of minde;
And booteles hope to harpe vpon releif
Where care maie seeke but neuer comfort find;
For in the world I had no joy but one,
And all but death now see is dead and gone.

Gone is my ioy alas, and well awaye
What shall I doe now all my loue is gone?
All my delight is falne into decaye,
Onlie but heavne I haue to hope vpon:
Oh heavnly powres take pitte of my crye
Lett me not liue and see my louer dy.

Oh my loue! ah my loue! all my loue gone
Out alas sellie wretch wel-a-day, woe is me!
Of a freind euer freinde, suche a freind none
In the world, throughe the world, may the world see;
Holly saintes, higher powres, heavnes looke vpon me
Pitty me comfort me thus woe begon me.

My heavnly loue heavne lovde as well as I,
Heavne was his care and heavne was his content;
In heavne he liues, in heavne he cannot dye
From heavne he came and to the heavnes he wente;
Oh heavnly loue heavne will I looke for never
Till in the heavnes I male behold the[e] euer.

But what? methinkes I see a sodeine chaunge
The worlde doth seme to alter Nature muche;
The state of thinges is to my reason straunge
And sorrowes such as ther was neuer suche:
Suche lacke of loue, such mourninge for a frend
Suche worlde of woes as if the world shuld end.

Methinkes I see the Queene of kind affecte,
Sighing and sobbing with such inward greif
As hee that cold consider the effecte
Might see a harte lye dead without releif;
And in conceite so ouercome with care
As killes my harte to see her hevy fare.

Methinkes I see a sight of armed horse,
Ledd in by boyes as if the men were dead;
Methinkes I heere men murmur of a corse,

And gallant youthes goe hanging of the head;
Methinkes I heere a thunder in the aire
Bids farewell hope and looke vpon despaire.

Methinkes I herd the trumpett, drumm and fife
Sound all amort as if the worlde were done;
Methinkes I see the end of happie life,
Or second ioy since latter age begone;
Methinkes I heere the horror of the cry
As if the day were cumme it all shold dye.

Oh what I heer oh what I feele and see
Hold, harke, helpe, heavnes, how can I longer liue?
But in the heavnes there is no helpe for me
Not all the world can anie comfort giue;
When death doth of my deerest loue depriue [me]
What can remain in comfort to revive me?

Yitt for the world shall witnes what thou art
Which in the world didst leave no like behinde;
I will sett downe though shorte of thy desarte
The happy honor of thy heavnely minde;
And on this tombe I will w th teares engrave
The death of lif that for thy lacke I haue.

Looke on the hills, how all the shepperdes sitt
Heavie to thinke vpon their honest frend;
How Phillis sitts, as one besides hir witt
To see the sorrow of her shepperde's end;
Harke how the lambes goe blayning vp and downe
To see their shepperde caried to the towne.

Looke how the flocke begins to leave there feedinge!
While cruell beastes breake in among the sheepe;
See how the hart of loue doth lye a-bleeding,
[That] Mars was slaine while Venus was a-sleep;
See how the earth is bare in euery place
To see that Death hath [done] the world disgrace.

And Coridon, poore sillie wretched swaine,
Doth make suche moane as if he wolde go mad;
All in despaire to see good daies againe,
To loose the ioy that on the earth he had;
Who since the tyme he harde but of his wound
Lyvde like a ghost that goes vpon the ground.

And so forlorne abandonde all content
Kepes in the caves where comfort is vnknowne;
Borne but to lyue and only to lament
The dolfull life that by his death hath growne;
Who in his life wold lett him know no care.
But by his death all greifes that euer are.

Pan in a rage hath broken all his pipes
Pallas, alas, sitts poring on a booke;
Her weeping eyes, see how Diana wypes,
And poore Appollo castes a pittous looke;
The Nymphes cumme in with such a wofull cryinge
As if that Love or Venus laye a-dyinge.

The nightingale is stopped in her throate
[And] shriching owles do make a fearfull noyse;
The dolfull ravenes do singe a deadly note
And litle wrennes the end of eagles tryes;
The phaenix drowpes and falcons beat their winges
To heer how swannes of death and sorrow singes.

The trees are blasted and the leaves do wither
The daintye greene is turned to darke graye;
The gallant vines are shruncke and gone together
And all the flowres do fade and fall awaie:

The springes are dride and all the fishe scales beaten
And all good fruite the earth itself hath eaten.

Oh what a woe it is to see the woes
Where nought but woe is lefte to looke vpon;
A greif to[o] great for reason to disclose
And in effectes a death to studdy on;
Wher man and beaste, birdes, fishes, flowres, trees
Do halfe the hope of all theire comforte leese.

When on the earth was euer such a night?
Hardly the world can such a sorrow haue;
Neuer did death more cease vpon delight
Then when this knight was caryed to his grave;
Which when I sawe so neere my hart I sett
As while I liue I neuer can forgett.

First cummes the brother all in mourning blacke
Morning indeede in bodie and in minde;
Foldinge the armes as if his hart wold cracke,
Feling the death that Loue and Nature finde;
Looking vpon the last of his delight:
Oh heavnly God it was a wofull sight!

The schollres cumme with lachrimis Amoris ,
As though theire hartes were hoples of releif;
The soldiers come with tonitru clamoris
To make the heavnes acquainted with theire greif;
The noble peeres in ciuitalis portis
In hartes ingravne cumme w th dolor mortis .

The straungers cumme, oh che mala sorte
The servantes cumme with morte di la vita
The secrete frendes with morte piu che morte
And all with their felicita finita ;
Now for my selfe oh dolor infernale
Da vivere tal et non viuer tale .

Now if the greif of all the world be great,
How great is his that hath the greif of all!
Who doth in thought more deadly panges repeate
Then euer dyd to all the world befall:
Whose deadly pashions plainlie do approue
The only terme, Anatomy of Loue.

But since I see there is no remedye
What God will haue must neuer be withstood:
And mal content is but a mallady
That maie consume but can do litle good:
I will to God referre my whole releif
In heavnly cure of my vnhappie greif.

And on my knees before His holy wyll
To caste on me those swete and loving eyes
That heale the hart of euery [hatefull] yil
And giue the life where comfort neuer dyes;
And wher my hart is gone my hope may thither
That faith and loue may liue in heavne together.

But till my sowle may see that heavnly sweete
Wher vertue doth her deerest loue embrace;
Wher comfort, care, and kinde affect may meete
And share the ioye to see eche other's face;
Vpon the tombe I will the sorrowes sett downe
That all the world maie reede of thy renowne.

Perfection peereles, vertue w th out pride,
Honor and learninge linkt w th highest love:
Ioye of the thought in true direction tryed,
Life of the love, that highest hono r proue;
In Angells' Armes w th heavnlie handes imbraced
Paradise pleased and all the world disgraced.

Seeke all the world, or seeke and never finde
In earthlie mould the mount of such a mynde;
Devinest gueste that God and man bestoweth
In glory such as from such glorye groweth.
And of the ioyes that haue all greife begonne,
Yet let me weepe when all the world hath done.