Let maters care for their grizzling bairn,
And the dead bury their dead head
If be man that slay me to eye-watering cairn;
Gouge no eye for eye, yet wish him no ill instead
When not every deads has but earthy graves,
Some were throttled, with rancours, cruel loathings;
Many a man not foiled nor dead of warwaves,
Yet whom right halberd avenges those blood-floatings
That bails injured souls from their unseen anguish,
They are villein praying for shadows of dusk,
Or weary slave snoozing for a vim-replenish;
For i am like them, Nothing but dry useless husk
Am good as not grass, worms or crawls of earth,
Let heaven judge men, evils, deeds and death
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I enjoyed your sonnet, Sir Toby. Thank you for sharing.