Muses which sadly sit about my Chayre,
Drown’d in the Teares, extorted by my Lines,
With heauie Sighes whilst thus I breake the Ayre,
Painting my Passions in these sad Designes;
Since she disdaines to blesse my happie Verse,
The strong-built Trophies to her liuing Fame,
Euer henceforth my Bosome be your Hearse,
Wherein the World shall now intombe her Name;
Inclose my Musike, you poore senselesse Walls,
Sith she is deafe, and will not heare my Mones,
Soften your selues with eu’ry Teare that falls,
Whilst I like Orphevs sing to Trees and Stones;
Which with my plaint seeme yet with pittie moued,
Kinder then she whom I so long haue Loued.