A Priest's Song

Virtue's branches wither, virtue pines,
O pity, pity, and alack the time!
Vice doth flourish, vice in glory shines,
Her gilded boughs above the cedar climb.

Vice hath golden cheeks, O pity, pity!
She is every land doth monarchize:
Virtue is exiled from every city,
Virtue is a fool, vice only wise.

O pity, pity! virtue weeping dies,
Vice laughs to see her faint, alack the time!
This sinks; with painted wings the other flies:
Alack, that best should fall, and bad should climb!

O pity, pity, pity! mourn, not sing!
Vice is a saint, virtue an underling.
Vice doth flourish, vice in glory shines,
Virtue's branches wither, virtue pines.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.