No more, no more, since thou art dead, Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed; No more, at yearly festivals, We, cowslip balls, Or chains of columbines shall make, For this or that occasion's sake. No, no; our maiden pleasures be Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee; 'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave; Or if we have One seed of life left, 'tis to keep A Lent for thee, to fast and weep. Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all paradise; May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence Fat frankincense; Let balm and cassia send their scent From out thy maiden-monument. May no wolf howl, or screech owl stir A wing about thy sepulchre! No boisterous winds or storms come hither, To starve or wither Thy soft sweet earth; but, like a spring, Love keep it ever flourishing. May all shy maids, at wonted hours, Come forth to strew thy tomb with flowers; May virgins, when they come to mourn, Male-incense burn Upon thine altar; then return, And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. 245. THE WIDOWS' TEARS; OR, DIRGE OF DORCAS Come pity us, all ye who see Our harps hung on the willow-tree; Come pity us, ye passers-by, Who see or hear poor widows' cry; Come pity us, and bring your ears And eyes to pity widows' tears. CHOR. And when you are come hither, Then we will keep A fast, and weep Our eyes out all together, For Tabitha; who dead lies here, Clean wash'd, and laid out for the bier. O modest matrons, weep and wail! For now the corn and wine must fail; The basket and the bin of bread, Wherewith so many souls were fed, CHOR. Stand empty here for ever; And ah! the poor, At thy worn door, Shall be relieved never. Woe worth the time, woe worth the day, That reft us of thee, Tabitha! For we have lost, with thee, the meal, The bits, the morsels, and the deal Of gentle paste and yielding dough, That thou on widows did bestow. CHOR. All's gone, and death hath taken Away from us Our maundy; thus Thy widows stand forsaken. Ah, Dorcas, Dorcas! now adieu We bid the cruise and pannier too; Ay, and the flesh, for and the fish, Doled to us in that lordly dish. We take our leaves now of the loom From whence the housewives' cloth did come; CHOR. The web affords now nothing; Thou being dead, The worsted thread Is cut, that made us clothing.