"Oh, Death! that hast us of such riches reft, Tell us at least, What hast thou with it done? What is become of him, whose flower here left; Is but the shadow of his likeness gone. Scarce like the shadow of that which he was: Nought like, but that he, like a shade, did pass." "But that immortal spirit, which was deckt With all the dowries of celestial grace; By sovereign choice from th' heavenly quires select, And lineally derived from angels' race: O what is now of it become aread? Aye me! can so divine a thing be dead?" "Ah, no! It is not dead, nor can it die; But lives for aye in blissful Paradise: Where like a new-born babe it soft doth lie In bed of lilies, wrapped in tender wise: And compassed all about with roses sweet, And dainty violets from head to feet." "There, thousand birds, all of celestial brood, To him do sweetly carol day and night; And with strange notes, of him well understood, Lull him asleep in angelic delight: Whilst in sweet dream, to him presented be Immortal beauties, which no eye may see." "But he them sees, and takes exceeding pleasure Of their divine aspects, appearing plain; And kindling love in him above all measure Sweet love, still joyous, never feeling pain. For what so goodly form he there doth see, He may enjoy, from jealous rancour free." "There liveth he in everlasting bliss, Sweet spirit! never fearing more to die: Ne dreading harm from any foes of his, Ne fearing savage beast's more cruelty. Whilst we here, wretches! wail his private lack; And with vain vows do often call him back." "But live thou there still happy, happy spirit! And give us leave, thee here thus to lament: Not thee, that dost thy heaven's joy inherit; But our own selves, that here in dole are drent. Thus do we weep and wail, and wear our eyes, Mourning in others, our own miseries." * * * * * Which when she ended had, another swain, Of gentle wit and dainty sweet device; Whom ASTROPHEL full dear did entertain Whilst here he lived, and held in passing price: Hight THESTYLIS, began his mournful tourn, And made the Muses in his song to mourn. And after him, full many other moe, As every one in order loved him best; 'Gan dight themselves t'express their inward woe With doleful lays unto the tune addrest. The which I here in order will rehearse, As fittest flowers to deck his mournful hearse. _The mourning Muse of_ THESTYLIS. [Illustration]