Lament we our mishaps, Drowne we with teares our woe: For Lamentable happes Lamented easie growe: And much lesse torment bring Then when they first did spring. We want that wofull song, Wherwith wood-musiques Queene Doth ease her woes, among, fresh springtimes bushes greene, On pleasant branche alone Renewing auntient mone. We want that monefull sounde, That pratling _Progne_ makes On fieldes of _Thracian_ ground, Or streames of _Thracian_ lakes: To empt her brest of paine For _Itys_ by her slaine. Though _Halcyons_ doo still, Bewailing _Ceyx_ lot, The Seas with plainings fill Which his dead limmes haue got, Not euer other graue Then tombe of waues to haue: And though the birde in death That most _Meander_ loues So swetely sighes his breath When death his fury proues,_ _As almost softs his heart, And almost blunts his dart: Yet all the plaints of those, Nor all their tearfull larmes, Cannot content our woes, Nor serue to waile the harmes, In soule which we, poore we, To feele enforced be. Nor they of _Phæbus_ bredd In teares can doo so well, They for their brother shedd, Who into _Padus_ fell, Rash guide of chariot cleare Surueiour of the yeare. Nor she whom heau’nly powers To weping rocke did turne, Whose teares distill in showers, And shew she yet doth mourne. Where with his toppe to Skies Mount _Sipylus_ doth rise. Nor weping drops which flowe From barke of wounded tree, That _Myrrhas_ shame do showe With ours compar’d may be, To quench her louing fire Who durst embrace her sire. Nor all the howlings made On _Cybels_ sacred hill By Eunukes of her trade, Who _Atys_, _Atys_ still With doubled cries resound,_ _Which _Echo_ makes rebound. Our plaints no limits stay, Nor more then doo our woes: Both infinitely straie And neither measure knowes. _In measure let them plaine:_ _Who measur’d griefes sustaine._ _Cleopatra._ _Eras._ _Charmion._ _Diomede._ _Cleopatra._