Classic Poem

It was the time by this the post departed,
That golden Phaebus hides his glorious beames,
Low in the Westerne Ocean, when vncarted:
His neighing steeds leauing their wearied teames,
Whose mouthes through trauell yet the froth out fumes,
Goes to their nightly manger, and their guide,
In Thetis lap his hoary head did hide.

A sable darkenesse did the earth o'reshed,
And busie labourers left their dayly toile:
Way-faring Pilgrims wished peryods made
To that dayes iourney, wearied with turmoile,
The pearly dew desprinkled all the soile:
And chaste Diana gan for to arise,
And thrust her forked head into the skies.

Both man and beast, and all the fowles that flies,
Betooke them to the nights delighting ease:
Nothing did stirre, saue that the trembling trees,
Did by their shakings little whisprings raise:
The siluer streames slide softly by their braise.
And sauing wronged Philomell , that wept
Her wofull rape, each other creature slept.

The Heauens were calme, imbrodered with starres,
The earth was silent, and the seas at rest,
Eole and Neptune left their wonted warres,
And as companions for that night embrac'd,
And if it were not mindes with griefe opprest,
Whose carefull thoughts are still renew'd by night,
A drowsie slumber did possesse each wight.

And well this solitary time did fit,
The griefe-oppressed minde of this great Lord,
Who now almost distract of sence and wit,
His loues estate such passions do affoord,
That he has scarsely power to breath one word;
" For greatest sorrowes oft-times hold their peace,
" While little grieues to prattle neuer cease.

His toung into his throates deepe center flies,
In silence there for euer to abide,
Likewife, ashamed of the light, his eyes
Within their Iuory couerlets them hide,
From thence againe, nere thinking to be spide,
For since the light of his desires was gone,
He thought no light was to be look't vpon.

Nothing he heares but straight affrights his eares,
Each thing he feeles and touches, breeds him terror:
Without benum'd of sense, within his feares
Perplexe his minde, with ougly shapes of horror,
His conscience still vpbraides him, with his error,
First of the making of his vowe, and next,
That found so fowle a meane to keepe it fixt.

Ten thousand sundry thoughts at once molest him,
In diuerse formes presenting diuers woes,
The harmlesse bed wherein he lyes to rest him,
Of his past deed he thinkes the fondnesse showes,
His cares growne big with many bitter throwes,
Seeke for deliuery from his griefe swolne brest,
Which in the birth dye smoothered and opprest.

He burnes, he swels, he turnes, and takes no rest,
With anger, rage, with griefe, and restlesse groanes,
So great a masse of sorrowes him opprest,
As now the world deliuered, he suppones,
And free exempt from cares, releas'd of moanes,
Her spacious face so oft before had troubled,
And all laide now on him, yea more then doubled.

His sorrow-silent-stricken-toung, cannot
Keepe back the passage of his sighes, no more
Which so assailes it, that it leaues his throate,
Returning thither whence it fled before,
While comming to his breath's faire Iuory doore,
It begs a pasport from his lips of new,
To those greefe-boyling sighes which so pursue.