Classic Poem

Melpomene (at whose mischeifous tove,
The screech owles voyce is heard; the mandraks gro[v]e)
Commands my pen in an Iambick vaine,
To tell a dismall tale, that may constraine,
The hart of him to bleede that shall discerne,
How much this foule amisse does him concerne,
Alecto (grim Alecto) light thy tortch,
To thy beloved sister next the porch,
That leads unto the mansion howse of fate,
Whose farewell makes her freind more fortunate.
A great Squa Sachem can shee poynt to goe,
Before grim Minos, and yet no man know.
That knives, and halters, ponds, and poysonous things,
Are alwayes ready when the Divell once brings,
Such deadly sinners: to a deepe remorse,
Of conscience selfe accusing that will force,
Them to dispaire like wicked Kain, whiles death,
Stands ready with all these to stopp their breath,
The beare comes by; that oft hath bayted ben,
By many a Satyres whelpe unlesse you can,
Command your eies to drop huge milstones forth,
In lamentation of this losse on earth,
Of her, of whome, so much prayse wee may finde,
Goe when shee will, shee'l leave none like behinde,
Shee was too good for earth, too bad for heaven.
Why then for hell the match is somewhat even.