Classic Poem

You lustie youthes that sometime were his friends,
Cornelius life here may you lively reade:
In spite of death his vertues never endes,
Whose worthie pathes are meete for you to treade,
At home hee seeld in any quarels fell:
All sortes hee pleasd, hee usde himselfe so well.

When Flushing frayes were roung with sweete report,
Our English youthes post hast them thether hie,
Where as they found (Godwot) but sorrie sport,
Farre from the speach that of the gaine did flie,
With whom in hope, who hap did well deserve,
Away hee goes the Orenge prince to serve.

And plaste at length amonge the drunken Dutch,
Hee quite forgot hee went to fight for pence.
The marke of fame was that hee sought to touch,
The which he hit, before hee parted thence:
With slender pay at first hee was content,
And yet his minde stil with the foremost went.

Though harebrainde youthes at such preferment spurne,
And gape for charge ere they them selves can guide,
Although hee had of friends to serve his turne,
Hee left such sute, till his desert were tride,
In all al-armes to fight hee soone was prest,
In heate of blowes as forward as the best.

That hee unfawe, syld skirmishes there were,
(Such paines hee tooke to scale the fort of fame,)
The coine hee had hee grudged not to share
For their reliefe that sickly were or lame:
Of every fort thus wonne hee worthie praise,
From best to worst that serv'd in Holland fraies.

Two yeares and more hee tasted souldiers toiles,
And did escape when other men were slaine;
But keeping still a coile in bloudie broiles,
(I sighe to show) God wot, he caught his baine.
Who being dead, though no man may revive,
Yet shall my Muse his vertues keepe alive.