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And entertain an harmelesse day. Within Parnassus safe retreate Upon whose verdure weel repeate A sweeter tale Then Nightingale 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 Phaebus displayes 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. |