Classic Poem

Sad Sophonisba wistly notes the storie,
And giuing foorth a death-presaging grone:
Deare wronged Lady (quoth she) I am sorry,
That time will not permit me to bemone
Thy sad mischance, nor shalt thou grieue alone;
For why I hope our ghosts shall meet ere long,
Where each to other shall complaine our wrong.

O how my fortune doth resemble thine!
How like thy sorrowes are (alas) my woes!
Affricke thy country, Affricke likewise mine:
Both our destructions from one fountaine flowes:
Æneas thine, his of-spring now my foes;
He bred thy ruine, they my sad distresse;
He wrong'd a Queene, they wrong'd me now no lesse.

And since the greatnesse of thy mind was such,
Death to preferre vnto a liuing shame,
Shall not thy braue example mooue as much
Desire in me for to performe the same?
Let comming ages heare it told by Fame,
How Sophonisba imitating thee,
Chus'd rather death, then liuing Infamy.

This spoke without amazement, feare or dread,
She drinks the fatall poyson (noble Dame)
Which streight his venim through her veines doth spred,
Scorning resistance wheresoere it came:
Euen as we see a little sparke or flame,
When once it kindles where it finds fit matter,
From place to place his furious flames doth scatter.

Now while this powerfull portion in her veines,
So fiercely wrought, her life began to faile,
Which no more lordship in her brest retaines:
So bitterly death did it their assaile,
Which hauing bidden to her heart farewell:
Her chiefest dwelling straight for feare she flies
For safety vpwards to her lips and eyes.

There as if death had com'd awhile to play
Vnder the shadow of discheuild haire,
Which dangling o're her face and shoulders lay,
She yet retaines a countenance most faire,
Her gesture did her willing death declare:
And as her breath by intermission dies,
So peece by peece her beautie fades and flies.

Most like vnto a tender Lilly faire,
That's ouer-blasted with some raging storme,
Whose sauory blossomes late perfum'd the ayre,
Hangs downe his head, losing his wonted forme,
Or as a flower chokt with a canker worme,
Euen so the natiue beauty now ore-blowne,
Of this faire Queene seem's borrowed, not her owne.

Thus while her life stayes in an houering feare,
Within the precinct of her currall lips:
Finding grim death had tane possession there,
Not willing more to enter in his grips,
Giuing a bitter sob from thence she skips,
Leauing free passage to her soule opprest,
To leaue the daintie prison of her brest.

But soule and body loth to part asunder,
Both seeme some little respite to intreat:
Yet th' one must go, the other stay: a wonder
For all the world that viewes it to regreet:
Victorious death now strikes, he leaues to threat:
So this braue Dame her gallant ghost vp yeelds,
Which flies with triumph to th' Elizian fields.