Classic Poem

Midst all the darke and knotty Snares,
Blacke wit or malice can or dares,
Thy glorious wisdome breakes the Nets,
And treads with uncontrouled steps.
Thy quel'd foes are not onely now
Thy triumphes, but thy Trophies too:
They, both at once thy Conquests bee,
And thy Conquests memorye.
Stony amazement makes them stand
Waiting on thy victorious hand,
Like statues fixed to the fame
Of thy renoune, and their owne shame.
As if they onely meant to breath,
To bee the Life of their owne Death.
'Twas time to hold their Peace when they,
Had nere another word to say:
Yet is their silence unto thee,
The full sound of thy victory.
Their silence speakes aloud, and is
Thy well pronounc'd Panegyris .
While they speake nothing, they speake all
Their share, in thy Memoriall.
While thy speake nothing, they proclaime
Thee, with the shrillest Trumpe of fame.
To hold their peace is all the waies,
These wretches have to speake thy praise.