Classic Poem

As nought for splendour can with sunne compare,
For beautie, sweetnesse, modestie, ingyne,
So shee alone unparagon'd did shyne,
And angelles did with her in graces share.

Though few heere were her dayes, a span her life,
Yet hath shee long tyme liued, performing all
Those actiones which the oldest doe befall,
Pure, fruitfull, modest, virgine, mother, wife.

For this perhaps, the fates her dayes did close,
Her deeming old; perfection doth not last,
When coarser thinges scarce course of tyme can waste;
Yeeres liues the worthlesse bramble, few dayes the rose.

Vnhappye autumne, spoyler of the flowres,
Discheueler of meades and fragrant plaines,
Now shall those monethes which thy date containes,
No more from hauens be nam'd, but eyes' salt showres.