Classic Poem

In 1643
What will you suffer thus your hawke to dye?
And shan't her name live in an Elegy?
It shall not be, nor shall the people think,
Wee've so few Poets, or so little drink.
And if there be no sober brain to do it,
I'll wet my Muse, and set my self unto it.
I have no Gods, nor Muse to call upon,
Sir Johns strong barrel is my Helicon .
From whence uncurbed streams of tears shall flow,
And verse shall run, when I my self can't go.
Poor bird, I pitty this thy strange disaster,
That thou should'st thus be murthred by thy master.
Was it with salt? I'm sure he was not fresh,
Or was't thy trusting to an arme of flesh?
Or 'cause 'twas darksome did his eye-sight fail,
Meeting a Post, he took it for a Rayle?
And yet I wonder how he mis'd his sight,
For though the night was dark, his head was light
And though he bore thee with a mighty hand,
Thou needs must fall, when he himself can't stand.
'Tis but our common lot, for we do all
Sometimes, for want of understanding fall.
But thou art serv'd aright, for when th'had'st flown,
What ere thou tookst, thou tookst to be thy own
And 'tis but Justice, that each plundring knave,
That such a life doth lead, such death should have
Rejoyce you Partridge, and be glad ye Rayles,
For the Hawks tallons, are as short's your tayles
If all the Kingdomes bloody foes, as she,
Would break their necks, how joyfull should we be.
Well at her burial, thus much I will tell,
In spite of schism, her bells shall ring a knell.