Classic Poem

I sing the civill Warres, tumultuous Broyles,
And bloody factions of a mightie Land:
Whose people hautie, proud with forraine spoyles,
Upon themselves turn-backe their conquering hand;
Whil'st Kin their Kin, Brother the Brother foyles;
Like Ensignes all against like Ensignes band;
Bowes against Bowes, the Crowne against the Crowne;
Whil'st all pretending right, all right's throwne downe.

What furie, o what madnes held thee so,
Deare England (too too prodigall of blood)
To waste so much, and warre without a foe,
Whilst Fraunce , to see thy spoyles, at pleasure stood!
How much might'st thou have purchast with lesse woe,
T'have done thee honour and thy people good?
Thine might have beene what-ever lies betweene
The Alps and us, the Pyrenei and Rhene .