Classic Poem

Thow that so much canst boaste
to have bine toste,
On seas so full off stryfe:
Will yett goe prowe againe
the toylinge paine
Off that same hellyshe lyfe.

What though Naeptunus smyle
the to beguyle
When thow departest the Baye;
Yett manye a stormye freatt
and perrils greate
May happen by the waye.

Whose vowes have bynn unjust
should never trust
The vengaunce of the Seas;
Who doth his fayth forswere
should lyve in feare
The Gods he doth displease.

And havinge love beguylde
sweete Venus childe
The mothers wrath beware;
For Cythare the fayre
is his owne ayre
That rule on seas doth bare.

See how I doe requite
goodwill for spite
So to advise my foe;
Why should I dreade to thinke
that thow shouldst synck
Through whom I swymme in woe

But happye mayst thow lyve,
and rather geve
Myne eyes cause to lament
Thy partinge, then thy death;
though my last breath
Throughe thy despite be spent.

Put case (but gods the shylde)
somme storme unmylde
On suddayne the surprise;
What thoughts of secreete synne,
and grudge within
Thy conscience would aryse.

When thow to mynde dost call
the leasings all
Of the perjurede wyghte:
And how poore Dido Queene
hath felt the teene
Off cancrede Trojan spite,

A thowsand rackinge cares
shall unawares
Within thy thoughts be ryfe;
The fettered locks unbounde
and bloudye wounde
Of thy abused wyfe.

Then hopelesse of redresse
thow shalt confesse
And waile thy lewde pretence:
And saye this tempeste greate
doth only threate
Revenge of myne offence.

Wherefore let tyme aswage
Neptunus rage
Geve thy desyre somme rest:
Ere thow departe awaye
a lyttle staye
May fall out for the best.

Have no respecte to me
but gratious be
To younge Julus lyfe;
Enoughe is thy defame
to staine thy name
With murder off thy wife.

What hath thy lovely Sonn
to the mysdonn
Or els thy Gods of Troye;
Whom havynge savde from fyre
thow shouldst desire
In depe seas to destroye.

But thow playdst no such parte
oh faythles harte
For all thy vauntinge vayne;
Nor on thy shoulders lyer
thyn aged Syer
Thow never didst sustaine.

Tys fals o tounge accurste
nor I the furste
That thy smothe tales have charmde,
For those thy flatteringe bayts
with lyke deceyghts
Full many a harte hath harmde

Wouldest thow but truelye tell
what chaunce befell
Aschanius mother deare:
Hyr death would fall out right
through thy despight
That wearte hir faythles pheare

But to fayre wordes god wote
I sylly Sote
My yeldinge eare dyd bende,
Whereby this life of myne
in stead of thine
Is brought unto an ende.

Thy gods as ytt should seame
the guiltye deame
And therefore plauge the soe;
That for this seaven years space
from place to place
Haste romed to and froe.

When I the francklye lett
thy foote to sett
Uppon my fenced Shoare;
And to a wandringe slave
my kingdome gave
His name scarce tolde before.

With theise good turnes off myne
to the and thyne
Would I had bene suffysde;
So that the foule desyre
of Cupids fyre
Had nott my harte surprysde.

But dismale was that Daye:
when I astraye
Into a savage Cave
Alone with the first wente;
but with entente
Our selves from showres to save.

Me thoughte the Nymphes begann
in that place than
To shoute our wedlocks sporte;
But fends they weare of hell
that dyd foretell
My Joyes should be but shorte.

With vengeaunce let be rackte
my honor wrackte
Which I Sicheus sware:
Or let somme hatefull ende
my Ghost downe sende
As full of shame as care.

A sacred shryne I have
wheare portred brave
Sicheus shape ys seene:
Which holly place is dyght
with fleeces whight
And garlonds all of grene.

And theare a whysperinge noyce
of his owne voice
Me seemde foure tymes to heare;
With sounde moste sweete to please
his wordes weare theyse
Elisa cumme my deare.