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| SUCH is the verse compos’d in mournefull teene, | |
| Sadlie attyr’d in sorrowe’s liverie: | |
| So sings poore Philomele, woods’ ravisht queene, | |
| Progne’s mad furie, Itis’ tragedie, | |
| Pandion’s death, and Tereus’ trecherye; | 5 |
| Such songs in Canens’ scalding tears were fram’d | |
| When Tibur’s streames were last heard Picus nam’d. | |
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| And such be myne, most meet for funerall; | |
| A sable outside fits a mourning heart, | |
| And inward grief doth outward senses call | 10 |
| In sorrow’s quire to beare a weeping part. | |
| Teares be my inke, sad ensigne of my smart; | |
| My words be sighs, the caracters of woe, | |
| Which all mishaped like themselves doe show. | |
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| First shall I mourne thy too, too suddeyn death, | 15 |
| Deare to my soule as to myselfe, which then, | |
| Which then, alas! smothered thy feeble breath, | |
| When life had newly tane possession. | |
| In spring of years Death winter hastned on; | |
| And enviouse of thy well-deserved prayse, | 20 |
| Made winter’s youth an end of winter’s dayes. | |
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| Like a fayre apple, which some ruder hand | |
| Ungently plucks, before it ripened be; | |
| Or tender rose, enclosed in verdant band, | |
| New peeping forth from rugged rinde we see, | 25 |
| To garnish out his fruitfull nurserye; | |
| Till nipt by northerne blast, it hangs the head, | |
| All saplesse, livelesse, foule, and withered: | |
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| Such be thy lookes, pale Death’s usurped right, | |
| Such be the roses that adorn’d thy face, | 30 |
| Such the bright lamps that gave thy bodie light, | |
| Such the all-pleasing, simple, modest grace, | |
| Which had theyr lodging in so sweet a place. | |
| Ah! but thy better part far lovelyer is, | |
| Copartner now of Heaven’s eternal blisse. | 35 |
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| Thee why doe I with womanish lament, | |
| Unseemlie teares, bewayle my losse in thee? | |
| Stay but a while, and all my store is spent— | |
| Affection needs must beare a part with me, | |
| Since I must share my part with miserie. | 40 |
| Goe, blessed soule as ever cut the sky, | |
| As e’er increased heaven’s melodie. | |
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| Joy in thy selfe as thy Redeemer’s merit! | |
| And now I take my loving last farewell: | |
| Rest to thy bones, blisse to thy gloriouse spirit. | 45 |
| Thy memorie within this heart shall dwell, | |
| And therein shrin’d, nought shall thee thence expell. | |
| Take, mother earth, into thy frozen wombe | |
| This livelesse corse—thus earth to earth must come. | |
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