Classic Poem

But they like volleys, willing to be wrocken,
On it poore toung, that staid their course so long,
Disorderly do march, their rankes being broken
All would be first for to reueng their wrong,
Euen as wee see a mad vnruly throng,
Of countrey Clownes, to sack some bordering towne,
Run swarming from the hills and mountaines downe.

Or as a Christall current, that is staid,
To pay his debtfull tribute to the sea,
His channell stopt, whereby his course delayd,
He's forst a back vnto his sourse to flye,
Till that his streams increas'd, he growes so high,
That ouer bankes and braies he runs a maine,
Impetuously vnto the sea againe.

So his vnruly sighes all head-long follow,
Each striuing first who shall preuent an other:
But his throats entry being straight and hollow,
And they in number numberlesse come thither,
Cannot affoord them passage altogether.
While striuing for the place each in disdaine,
Sends one another smothered back againe.

His eyes which all this time inclosed lye,
Gazing vpon the motions of the thought:
How soone those ciuill broyles they do espye,
That sorrow had to his mindes kingdome brought,
No longer, in their Couerletts they mought
Behould the tragick view of their friends dying,
But straight retires them to their former being.

His toung and eyes now com'd to their owne place,
It enters to complaine, and they to weepe,
For since the ardor of his sighes did cease,
The humid vapours which his heart did keepe,
Vnboyld by them, to his eyes cesterns creepe.
From thence vpon his tender cheekes downe hopps,
Hanging like Perles vpon his soft-downe cropps.

And after long spent tears, his toung at length
In pittious sort those wofull words did breath,
Wretch'd Massinissa , had thou not the strength,
To saue one poore distressed Dame from death,
Brought vnder by vnconstant fortunes wrath?
Who onely vnder safety of thy shield,
Poore Lady, life and liberty did yeeld.

And that on such a couenant alasse,
Shee thee ingag'd these Iewels of her minde,
That thou should still preserue her from disgrace,
Which thou to doe, thy selfe by oath didst binde,
O cruell, cruell, thousand times vnkinde,
That could not else obserue thy passed faith,
But by thy haplesse louers wofull death.

Ah! who had seene her, when thou didst behold her,
Heauing her faire and snow-white hands to thee.
Crauing thy pitty, as thy selfe then told her,
(Though in th' extreamest state of misery)
Became much rather her sweete selfe to bee
A pitty giuer, then to beg the same,
That so with lookes the conqueror ouer-came.

Throwne downe by fortune, plung'd in deepe distresse,
Cros'd with affliction, ouer-come with sorrow;
Touch'd with each passion, could a minde oppresse;
Captiu'd or night, that was a Queene at morrow,
Yet her sweet looks, though sad sweet looks did borrow,
Both pitty, and compassion, to her griefe,
Deferring present euill, t'a worse mischiefe.

Vindictiue thoughts, calamity and care,
Foes vnto beauty, maiesty, and grace,
Made her not seeme lesse beautifull, lesse faire,
For though that sorrow seem'd to maske her face,
Yet her faire eyes, as if they scorn'd disgrace,
Whiles floods of liquid pearls down fro them powres,
Did glance like Phaebus rayes in Aprill showres.