And entertain an harmelesse day.
Within Parnassus safe retreate
Upon whose verdure weel repeate
A sweeter tale
Did there ere chaunt: for att her throat
A thorne keepes time to every Note.
I see no trail of enemie;
And yet mee thinks this Lauriall mount
Discollours yellow round about;
Tho through these bayes
His hottest beames, yet wee haue seen
His care to keep his owne Trees green.
All smear'd with Blood, what haue they done?
The Muses in a rout do stray
Phaebus hath flung his harpe away.
And heer's a Crowne
Comes tumbling downe
The head rouls after which it did weare.
Whose Blood and plaints yet sad the aire.
Borne of the cleanest beames o'th' Sunne.
But with what gentle touch the Nine
His torne Joints gather for a Shrine
And euery Limme
Do deck and trimme
Whilst Griefe their Numbers wracks wherby
They promist him Eternity.
And his fine Brands to dust do turne
According to that Art, wherby
Nighte may be day, by Chimistry;
So that calcind
Tho here hees shrin'd
Hee may spring out in purer light
And be disuellopt from this Night.
His life so well at Martyrdome
For hee a tottering stage betrod
Each steppe refining to a God
And tho each word
Could charme the sword
Which did vnsheath his soul, yet hee
Thus wasted out Mortallity.
And about his eyes did stray
Protected by his Majestie
Now weare his sable liuerie;
And strowe the flowers
Of these sweet bowers
Before his Course, whilst that the Nine
Their last notes sing unto his Shrine.
With these Crummes of Majestie
What know wee but the Gods aboue
All the rest now Deify?
No Caesar ere did sacrifice
Himself in Triumph & thus make
Attonement for his Enemies
At his Capitolian gate.
With a heart false like thy face
To loppe of a Diademe
About thy feet a dance to pace?
Maist thou not on a pillow lay
Thy owne head to be charmd with rest
But thy infernall Socia may
Be likewise lodged within thy brest.
As our fountaine of its Spring
Are now but a grave hermitage
The fate to Eccho of our King.
Yee Gods with whom he now doth stray
Let us who'ue lost the veine of verse
Whilst Hee doth tread the milky way
Stand still as Statues at his Herse.
At these sad sights should petrify:
And what a Monument should we haue
If wee stood fixt nere such a graue?
But lets returne
Ever to mourne
Goe wee gett to our Grotts these grones
will bee imprest into our stones.
Just so the sand beneath doth take
Those figures which the waves do make.