I GIVE my bodye untoe her that gatte Our grandam earth; theron, though worms maye bite Untoe the bone, they shall fynde little fatte, Soe long hath hunger fought a winnynge fighte. Straighte to the earth let it be borne outrighte: From earth that came, to earth at last doth come; For everythynge, unlesse my pen mys-write, To its owne place at laste goes gladlye home. Untoe my more than father haplye founde, William of Villon, him who was more milde Untoe the babe in swaddlynge raiment bounde Than ever Mother bye her sonne beguiled; Him that did save me from adventures wilde Full often—I doe give, lest he forgette Or else be loth to praye for his dead childe, The score of books within my cabinet. Untoe this godlye man likewyse I will The tale that at my biddynge Tabarie Did copye out in large script with his quill, Than whom was never man more trustworthye. In quires beneath the table dustilye It lies, and though the laboured style wherwith 'Tis written be a hindrance, all, pardie! May be forgiven for the matter's pith. Untoe my Mother,—for her soul's relief That therwith on our Ladye she maye call, Who for my sinnes hath had much bitter grief God knoweth, and much sorrowynge withal; Noe other castel have I nor strong wall Whertoe my bodye and my soul maye flee When on my path a-manye perils fall, Nor my poor Mother hath no more than me :— | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE OLD VICARAGE, GRANTCHESTER by RUPERT BROOKE FREDERICK DOUGLASS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR EPITAPH ON THE TOMB OF SIR EDWARD GILES AND HIS WIFE by ROBERT HERRICK TO ONE IN PARADISE by EDGAR ALLAN POE DOOMSDAY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES TO HIS DEAR FRIEND THOMAS RANDOLPH, ON HIS COMEDY 'THE JEALOUS LOVERS' by RICHARD BENEFIELD SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 31 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |