Classic Poem

The bloudy trunck of him who did possesse
Above the rest a haplesse happy state,
This little Stone doth Seale, but not depresse,
And scarce can stop the rowling of his fate.

Brasse Tombes which justice hath deny'd t'his fault,
The common pity to his vertues payes,
Adorning an Imaginary vault,
Which from our minds time strives in vaine to raze.

Ten yeares the world upon him falsly smil'd,
Sheathing in fawning lookes the deadly knife
Long aymed at his head; That so beguild
It more securely might bereave his Life.

Then threw him to a Scaffold from a Throne.
Much Doctrine lyes under this little Stone.