Classic Poem

Lyke as the swann snow white
without delight,
Amongst the waterye springes:
Hyr fatall dying songe,
the bancks alonge
On sweet Maenander singes.

So I all hopelesse styll,
to wrest thy will:
In vayne my moane doe make;
For on those graceles teares
my lyfe that weares,
The gods no pittye take.

But havinge loste the fame
of honest name,
Which chastytie men call:
To lose my lynes lykewyse
and carefull cryes
I counte no losse at all.

Thy sayles thow wilt betake
and now forsake,
Poore Dido ledd astraye:
The selfe same wyndes in skies
shall blowe lykewise,
Thy faith and Shippes awaye.

Thow wilt to Oceans wyde
thy tacks lett slyde,
And plighted promys foile,
Thow wilte with endles paine
go seeke to gaine,
Unknowen Italyan soyle.

May Carthage not the wynn?
which doth begynn:
To reare his head so hyghe,
Thow forrayne Realmes wilt seeke
yet canst not lyke
Thy conquest gaynde so nye.

Thyn owne thow doest eschewe,
and wilt pursue
Hope of uncertaine gaynes:
Els weare thy lykinge lyes,
and doest despyse
Goodes gotten without paines.

Admitt on Lande thow lyghte;
yett by what righte
Canst thow enjoy the same:
How will the people sweare
true fayth to beare
Unto a straungers name.

Another Didos love
thow wilt yett prove;
And newe delyghts assayle,
Another trothe in store,
which as before
Againe must falcelye faile.

When thinckest thow Trojan knight
with like delight,
To builde Carthagos peare?
Or where hopest thow to see
offred so free?
The glorye thow findest heare.

But graunte thy fortune suche,
to gaine so much
As aunswere may thy fyll:
Yet never shalt thow fynde
a mate so kynde;
To beare the like good will.

As doth a waxen torche
consume and scorche;
In flames so waste my yeares,
And still unto my sighte
both day and nyght
Æneas shape apeares.

All blushinge redd for shame
as toucht with blame
Of conscyence foullye wraykt,
And foole why doe I not
unknitt the knott
Of such his lewde contract.

Alas my fixed love
cannot remowe,
Though from his fayth he swarve
My lykinge still doth growe
the more I knowe
How yll he doth deserve.

O Venus graunte of grace
to ayde hir case
That in thy Sonn hath right;
And thow proude Archer learne
thy brother stearne,
To lyve a loyall knyght.

Or els yff he hath sworne
loves lawes to scorne,
Which I cannott eschewe;
Yett let hym longer staye
and day by daye
My deepe desyer renewe.

I ame abusde in the
that vaunst to bee
Comme of the heavenlye race;
Within whose cancred Brest
there doth not rest
One sparke off so high grace.

The stonye Rocks I knowe
that roots and growe
Uppon some barren earthe;
Or ravenynge Tygers wylde,
with mylke unmylde,
Dyd breede the from thy birthe.

Or of the ruthles waves
that stormynge raves
With whirle wyndes to and froe;
Whereon thy gaddinge mynde
is nowe enclynde
So desperatelye to gooe.

Why fleest thow so from me
doest thow not see
That winter pleades my case,
And puffinge Northern gales
wyth threatninge Bales
The frothy Seas doe chase.

Make me behouldinge yet,
though not a whitt,
To the, for this request:
But to the windes and Skies
that so denise
To rue one my unrest

I am not worth so muche
yf harme the touche
Though thy desert be smale;
As that to shunn my sighte
by secrete flyght
Into mishappe thow fall.

But in thy waywarde brest
there shuer doth rest
Somme hidden deadlye gale;
Iff from me to departe
content thow arte
To hazarde lyfe and all.

The lofty tossinge racke
will shortelye slacke
And be at certaine staye,
And Trytons charrott brave
wyll calme the wave
That now so rough doth playe.

O that thy willfull mynde
even with the winde,
Woulde yet in tyme convarte:
Which well I hope it maye
els will I saye
Then steele thow styffer arte.