"Then ASTROPHIL hath honoured thee. For when thy body is extinct, Thy graces shall eternal be. And live by virtue of his ink. For by his verses he doth give To shortlived beauty aye to live." "Above all others this is he, Which erst approvèd in his song That love and honour might agree, And that pure love will do no wrong. Sweet saints! it is no sin nor blame To love a man of virtuous name." "Did never love so sweetly breathe In any mortal breast before? Did never Muse inspire beneath, A poet's brain with finer store? He wrote of love with high conceit; And beauty reared above her height." "Then PALLAS afterward attired Our ASTROPHIL with her device, Whom in his armour heaven admired, As of the nation of the skies: He sparkled in his arms afar, As he were dight with fiery stars." "The blaze whereof, when MARS beheld (An envious eye doth see afar) 'Such majesty,' quoth he, 'is seld. Such majesty, my mart may mar. Perhaps this may a suitor be To set MARS by his deity.'" "In this surmise, he made with speed An iron can, wherein he put The thunders that in clouds do breed; The flame and bolt together shut, With privy force burst out again; And so our ASTROPHIL was slain." His word, "was slain," straightway did move, And Nature's inward life-strings twitch, The sky immediately above, Was dimmed with hideous clouds of pitch. The wrastling winds, from out the ground Filled all the air with rattling sound. The bending trees expressed a groan, And sighed the sorrow of his fall; The forest beasts made ruthful moan; The birds did tune their mourning call, And PHILOMEL for ASTROPHIL, Unto her notes, annexed a "phil." The turtle dove with tones of ruth, Showed feeling passion of his death; Methought she said "I tell thee truth, Was never he that drew in breath, Unto his love more trusty found, Than he for whom our griefs abound." The swan that was in presence here, Began his funeral dirge to sing; "Good things," quoth he, "may scarce appear; But pass away with speedy wing. This mortal life as death is tried, And death gives life, and so he died." The general sorrow that was made Among the creatures of kind, Fired the Phœnix where she laid, Her ashes flying with the wind. So as I might with reason see That such a Phœnix ne'er should be. Haply, the cinders driven about, May breed an offspring near that kind; But hardly a peer to that, I doubt: It cannot sink into my mind That under branches e'er can be, Of worth and value as the tree.