The choice of the Self

DISCLAIMER:  
I tried to write in Old Modern English style, if not Shakespearean.
I hope I did not make many mistakes.
Please do know I was never thaught it at school.
So it is purely my own and vague research.
 
'T wast certain a thing.
would mercy prevail?
sing anon, prisoner, sing.
ere thy death, we hail
 
a crowd we art, of vengeance.
aye, dark, medieval and diseas'd
word of god? nay repentance
we madeth god up to beest did please.
 
we coequal believeth in 't.
our own did bless word.
wars did initiate, the wit
of enshield cults unheard.
 
the untaught folk art easy.
the seldom doubt 'r bethink
their ranc'r is acid, uneasy,
they murder.  In a blink.
 
yet philosophy trives so well
in times devoid of nois'd machines
as mysteries reflect on the self
and in shadows the candle dreams.
 
noises tire the mind, accumulated,
and we receiveth not this apparent notion
passion, romance and glory art jaded,
knight battles f'r honour mourn, poison'd.
 
sing f'r thy maiden, long dead and forlorn.
i wanteth not the migration of flocks
land on the misty castle, swamps, whither sworn
the ancest'r heareth the clocks.
 
god save the queen, oh lord.
f'r t's about the royal airs
but not gold, t's the sword
shining on its rainy heirs.
 
all of those folk, princes melancholic.
their arrogance is vulgar not,
in the sence, t's philharmonic,
the tone is of a gentleman in thought.
 
I mean, it certainly is ugly
in a nuance one 'r two.
but blindness in blood bubbly
illuminates commonness yond through
 
a retangular spellbinding vortex
engluts the charm of the age
of ancient legacy, the cortex
tries to recov'r but the cage
 
in which the mind is trapped is death.
 
prithee, loseth not thy eyes on me.
 
lament, and loseth thy reeking breath.
 
yet. T's true.
 
the choice is yours, so whoev'r beest!