Classic Poem

Resolved to dust, intombed here lieth Love,
Through fault of her, who here herself should lie;
He struck her breast, but all in vain did prove
To fire the ice: and doubting by and by
His brand had lost his force, he gan to try
Upon himself; which trial made him die.

In sooth no force; let those lament that lust;
I 'll sing a carol-song for obsequy;
For towards me his dealings were unjust,
And cause of all my passid misery:
The Fates, I think, seeing what I had passed,
In my behalf wrought this revenge at last.

But somewhat more to pacify my mind,
By illing him, through whom I lived a slave,
I 'll cast his ashes to the open wind,
Or write this epitaph upon his grave —
" Here lieth Love, of Mars the bastard son,
Whose foolish fault to death himself hath done."