Classic Poem

Basilius

O night, the ease of care, the pledge of pleasure,
Desire's best mean, harvest of hearts affected,
The seat of peace, the throne which is erected
Of human life to be the quiet measure,

Be victor still of Phoebus ' golden treasure,
Who hath our sight with too much sight infected,
Whose light is cause we have our lives neglected,
Turning all Nature's course to self-displeasure.

These stately stars in their now shining faces,
With sinless sleep, and silence, wisdom's mother,
Witness his wrong which by thy help is eased.

Thou art therefore of these our desert places
The sure refuge; by thee and by no other
My soul is blest, sense joyed, and fortune raised.

Agelastus

Since wailing is a bud of causeful sorrow,
Since sorrow is the follower of ill fortune,
Since no ill fortune equals public damage,
Now prince's loss hath made our damage public,
Sorrow pay we unto the rights of Nature,
And inward grief seal up with outward wailing.
Why should we spare our voice from endless wailing,

Who justly make our hearts the seats of sorrow,
In such a case where it appears that Nature
Doth add her force unto the sting of fortune,
Choosing, alas, this our theatre public,
Where they would leave trophies of cruel damage?

Then since such pow'rs conspire unto our damage
(Which may be known, but never helped with wailing)
Yet let us leave a monument in public,
Of willing tears, torn hair, and cries of sorrow.
For lost, lost is by blow of cruel fortune
Arcadia 's gem, the noblest child of Nature.

O Nature doting old, O blinded Nature,
How hast thou torn thyself, sought thine own damage,
In granting such a scope to filthy fortune,
By thy imp's loss to fill the world with wailing!
Cast thy stepmother eyes upon our sorrow,
Public our loss: so, see, thy shame is public.

O that we had, to make our woes more public,
Seas in our eyes, and brazen tongues by nature,
A yelling voice, and hearts composed of sorrow,
Breath made of flames, wits knowing naught but damage,
Our sports murd'ring ourselves, our musics wailing,
Our studies fixed upon the falls of fortune.

No, no, our mischief grows in this vile fortune,
That private pangs cannot breathe out in public
The furious inward griefs with hellish wailing;
But forced are to burden feeble Nature
With secret sense of our eternal damage,
And sorrow feed, feeding our souls with sorrow.

Since sorrow then concludeth all our fortune,
With all our deaths show we this damage public
His nature fears to die who lives still wailing.