no one cares
no one cares
no one cares
no one cares

no one cares
no one cares
no one cares
no one cares

For, vnder the roufe of sweete Saint Paull,
There lyeth my Ladie buryed in claye,
Where I make memory for her soule
With weepinge eyes once euerye daye;
All other sightes I haue forgot,
That euer in court I ioyed to see,
And that is the cause I court it not,
So mery as I was wont to be.

And though that shee be dead and gone,
Whose courting need not be to tolde,
And natures moulde of fleshe and bone,
Whose lyke now liues not to beholde,
Me thinkes I see her walke in blacke,
In euery corner where I goe,
To looke if anie bodie do lacke
A friend to helpe them of theyr woe.

Mee thinkes I see her sorrowfull teares,
To princelye state approaching nye;
Mee thinkes I see her tremblinge feares,
Leste anie her suites shulde hit awrie;
Mee thinkes she shuld be still in place,
A pitifull speaker to a Queene,
Bewailinge every poore mans case,
As many a time shee hath ben seene.

Me thinkes I see her modeste mood,
Her comlie clothing plainlie clad,
Her face so sweete, her cheere so good,
The courtlie countenance that shee had;
But, chefe of all, mee thinkes I see,
Her vertues deutie daie by daie,
Homblie kneeling one her knee,
As her desire was still to praie.

Mee thinkes I cold from morow to night
Do no thing ells with verie good will,
But spend the time to speake and writte
The praise of my good ladies still;
Though reason saith, now she is dead,
Go seeke and sarue as good as she;
It will not sinke so in my head,
That euer the like in courte will bee.

But sure I am, ther liueth yet
In court a dearer frinde to mee,
Whome I to saure am so vnfit,
I am sure the like will neuer bee;
For I with all that I can dooe,
Vnworthie most maie seeme to bee,
To undoo the lachet of her shooe,
Yet will I come to courte and see.

Then haue amongste ye once againe,
Faint harts faire ladies neuer win;
I trust ye will consider my payne,
When any good venison cometh in;
And, gentill ladies, I you praie,
If my abstentinge breede to blame,
In my behalfe that ye will saie,
In court is remedie for the same.

Finis, Qd W. Elderton

Imprinted at London in Fletestreat
Beneath the COnduit, at the signe
of S. John Euangelift, by
Thomas Colwell.

Whenever you find yourself writing “it’s”, stop immediately. Ask yourself if “it is” can be substituted in its place. If not, take out that apostrophe.

Oh, and I would tell the Herald to not sig the bottom of your poem with “used by the gracious permission of the author”. Makes you look pretentious.