Classic Poem

O poore distracted world, partly a slave
To Pagans sinnefull rage, partly obscur'd
With ignorance of all the meanes that save;
And ev'n those parts of thee that live assur'd
Of heav'nly grace, Oh how they are devided
With doubts late by a Kingly penne decided!
O happy world, if what the Sire begunne
Had beene clos'd up by his religious Sonne!

Mourne all you soules opprest under the yoake
Of Christian-hating Thrace: never appear'd
More likelyhood to have that blacke league broke,
For such a heavenly prince might well be fear'd
Of earthly fiends. Oh, how is Zeale inflamed
With power, when truth wanting defence is shamed!
O princely soule, rest thou in peace, while wee
In thine expect the hopes were ripe in thee.