Classic Poem

Norfolk sprung thee, Lambeth holds thee dead,
Clere, of the County of Cleremont, though hight.
Within the womb of Ormond's race thou bred,
And saw'st thy cousin crowned in thy sight.
Shelton for love, Surrey for lord thou chase
(Ay me! whilst life did last that league was tender),
Tracing whose steps thou sawest Kelsal blaze,
Laundersey burnt, and batter'd Bullen render.
At Muttrel gates, hopeless of all recure,
Thine Earl, half dead, gave in thy hand his will;
Which cause did thee this pining death procure,
Ere summers four times seven thou couldst fulfil.
Ah, Clere, if love had booted, care or cost,
Heaven had not won, nor earth so timely lost.