Classic Poem

That gallant Ladie, gloriouslie bright,
The statelie piller once of worthinesse,
And now, a little dust, a naked spright:
Turn'd from hir warre's a joyefull Conqueresse:
Hir warre's, where she had foyl'd the mightie foe,
whose wylie stratagems the world distresse.
And foyl'd him, not with sword, with speare or bowe,
But with chaste heart, faire visage, upright thought,
wise speache, which did with honor linked goe:
And love's new plight to see strange wonders wrought
with shivered bowe, chaste arrowe's, quenched flame,
while-here som slaine, and there laye others caught.
She, and the rest, who in the glorious fame
Of the exploit, hir chosen mates, did share,
All in one squadronet close ranged came.
A few, for nature make's true glorie rare,
But eache alone (so eache alone did shine)
Claym'd whole Historians, whole Poete's care
Borne in greene field, a snowie Ermiline
Colored with topaces, sett in fine golde
was this faire companies unfoyled signe
No earthlie march, but heavenly, did they hould;
Their speaches holie were, and happie those,
who so are borne, to be with them enroll'd
Cleare starr's they seem'd, which did a Sunne unclose,
who hyding none, yett all did beawtifie
with Coronets deckt with violet and rose:
And as gain'd honor, filled with jollitie
Eache gentle heart, so made they merrie cheere,
when loe, an ensigne sad I might descrie,
Black, and in black, a woman did appeere,
Furie with hir, such as I scarcelie knowe
If lyke at Phlegra with the Giants were
Thow Dame, quoth she, that doeth so proudlie goe,
Standing upon thy youth, and beawties state,
And of thy life, the limit's doest not knowe.
Loe, I am shee, so fierce, importunate,
And deafe, and blinde, entytled oft by yow,
yow, whom with night ere evening I amate
I, to their end, the Greekish nation drewe,
The Trojan first, the Romane afterward,
with edge and point of this my blade I slewe
And no Barbarian my blowe could warde,
who stealing-on with unexpected wound,
Of idle thoughts have manie thousand marr'd.
And now no lesse to yow-ward am I bound,
while life is dearest, ere to cause yow moane,
Fortune som bitter with yor sweetes compound
To this, thow right or interrest hast none,
Little to me, but onelie to this spoile,
Replide then she, who in the world was one
This charge of woe on others will recoyle,
I knowe, whose safetie on my life depends:
For me, I thank who shall me hence assoile
As one whose eyes som noveltie attend,
And what it mark't not first, it spyde at last,
New wonders with it-self, now comprehends
So far'd the cruell, deepelie over-gast
with doubt awhile, then spake, I knowe them now
I now remember when my teethe they past.
Then with lesse frowning, and lesse darkned browe,
But thow that lead'st this goodlie companie,
Didst never yett unto my scepter bowe.
But on my counsell if thow wilt relye,
who maie inforce thee; better is by farre
From age and ages lothsomnesse to flye.
More honored by me, then others are
Thow shalt thee finde: and neither feare nor paine
The passage shall of thy departure barre.
As lykes that Lord, who in the heav'n doeth raigne,
And thence, this All, doeth moderatelie guide:
As others doe, I shall thee entretaine
So answered she, and I with-all descryde
Of dead appeere a never-numbred summe,
Pestring the plaine, from one to th'other side
From India, Spaine, Cattay, Marocco, Coome,
So manie Ages did together falle.
That worlds were fill'd, and yett they wanted roome
There sawe I, whom their times did happie calle,
Popes, Emperors, and kings, but strangelie growen,
All naked now, all needie beggers all
where is that wealth? where are those honor's gonne?
Scepters, and crounes, and roabe's, and purple dye?
And costlie myters, sett with pearle and stone?
O wretch, who doest in mortall things affye:
(yett who but doeth) and if in end they dye
Them-selve's beguil'd, they finde but right, saie I.
What meane's this toyle? Oh blinde, oh more then blinde:
yow all returne, to yor greate Mother, olde,
And hardlie leave yor verie names behinde.
Bring me, who doeth yor studies well behoulde,
And of yor cares not manifestlie vaine,
One lett him tell me, when he all hath tolde.
So manie lands to winne, what bootes the payne?
And on strange land's, tributes to impose,
with hearts still griedie, their oune losse to gaine.
After all theise, wherin yow winning loose
Treasure's and territories deere bought with blood;
water, and bread hath a farre sweeter close.
And golde, and gemme gives place to glasse and wood:
But leaste I should too-long degression make
To turne to my first taske I think it good.
Now that short-glorious life hir leave to take
Did neere unto the uttmost instant goe,
And doubtfull stepp, at which the world doeth quake.
An other number then themselves did shewe
Of Ladies, such as bodies yett did lade,
If death could pitious be, they faine would knowe
And deepe they did in contemplacion wade
Of that colde end, presented there to view,
which must be once, and must but once be made
All friends and neighbors were this carefull crue,
But death with ruthlesse hand on golden haire
Chosen from-out those amber-tresses drewe.
So cropt the flower, of all this world most faire,
To shewe upon the excellentest thing
Hir supreame force, And for no hate she bare
How manie dropps did flowe from brynie spring
In who there sawe those sightfull fountaines drye,
For whom this heart so long did burne and sing.
For hir in midst of moane and miserie,
Now reaping once what vertues life did sowe,
with joye she sate retired silentlie.
In peace cryde they, right mortall Goddesse goe,
And so she was, but that in noe degree
Could death entreate, hir comming to forslowe
what confidence for others? if that she
Could frye and freese in few nights changing cheere:
Oh humane hopes, how fond and false yow bee.
And for this gentle Soule, if manie a teare
By pittie shed, did bathe the ground and grasse,
who sawe, doeth knowe; think thow, that doest but heare.
The sixt of Aprill, one a clock it was
That tyde me once, and did me now untye,
Changing hir copie; Thus doeth fortune passe
None so his thralle, as I my libertie;
None so his death, as I my life doe rue,
Staying with me, who faine from it would flye
Due to the world, and to my yeares was due,
That I, as first I came, should first be gonne,
Not hir leafe quail'd, as yett but freshlie newe.
Now for my woe, guesse not by't, what is showne,
For I dare scarce once cast a thought there-too,
So farre I am of, in words to make it knowne.
Vertue is dead; and dead is beawtie too,
And dead is curtesie, in mornefull plight,
The ladies saide: And now, what shall we doe?
Never againe such grace shall blesse or sight;
Never lyke witt, shall we from woman heare
And voice, repleate with Angell-lyke delight
The Soule now prest to leave that bosome deere
Hir vertues all uniting now in one,
There, where it past did make the heavens cleare.
And of the enemies so hardlie none,
That once before hir shew'd his face obscure
with hir assault, till death had thorough gonne.
Past plaint and feare when first they could endure
To hould their eyes on that faire visage bent,
And that dispaire had made them now secure
Not as greate fyers violently spent,
But in them-selves consuming, so hir flight
Tooke that sweete spright, and past in peace content.
Right lyke unto som lamp of cleerest light,
little and little wanting nutriture,
Houlding to end a never-changing plight
Pale? no, but whitelie; and more whitelie pure,
Then snowe on wyndless hill, that flaking falle's:
As one, whom labor did to rest allure.
And when that heavenlie guest those mortall walles
Had leaft; it nought but sweetelie sleeping was
In hir faire eyes: what follie dying calles
Death faire did seeme to be in hir faire face

Marie Sidney Coun: of Pem: