Since that to death is gone the shepheard hie,
Who most the silly shepheard's pipe did prise,
Your dolefull tunes, sweet Muses, now applie.
And you, O trees (if any life there lies
In trees), now through your porous barkes receiue
The strange resound of these my causefull cries,
And let my breath vpon your branches cleaue,
My breath distinguish'd into words of woe,
That so I may signes of my sorrow leaue.
But if among your selues some one tree grow
That aptest is to figure miserie,
Let it embassage beare your grifes to show:
The weeping myrrhe I thinke will not denie
Her help to this, this iustest cause of plaint
Your dolefull tunes, sweet Muses, now applie.

And thou, poore Earth, whom Fortune doth attaint
In Nature's name to suffer such a harme,
As for to lose thy gemme, and such a saint,
Vpon thy face let coaly rauens swarme;
Let all the sea thy teares accounted be;
Thy bowels with all killing metalls arme.
Let gold now rust, let diamonds waste in thee,
Let pearles be wan, with woe their damme doth beare;
Thy selfe henceforth the light doe neuer see
And you, O flowers, which sometimes princes were,
Till these strange altrings you did hap to trie,
Of princes' losse your selues for tokens reare
Lilly, in mourning blacke thy whitenesse die:
O hyacinthe, let Ai be on thee still.
Your dolefull tunes, sweet Muses, now apply.

O Echo, all these woods with roaring fill,
And doe not onely marke the accents last,
But all, for all reach out my wailefull will:
One Echo to another Echo cast
Sound of my griefes, and let it neuer end,
Till that it hath all woods and waters past.
Nay, to the heav'ns your iust complaining send,
And stay the stars' inconstant-constant race,
Till that they doe vnto our dolors bend;
And aske the reason of that speciall grace,
That they, which haue no liues, should liue so long,
And vertuous soules so soone should lose their place?
Aske if in great men good men do so throng,
That he, for want of elbow room, must die?
Or if that they be skant, if this be wrong?
Did wisedome this, our wretched time, espie
In one true chest to rob all Vertue's treasure?
Your dolefull tunes, sweet Muses, now applie.

And if that any counsell you to measure
Your dolefull tunes; to them still playning say,
" To well felt griefe, plaint is the onely pleasure."
O light of Sunne, which is entit'led day,
O, well thou doest that thou no longer bidest,
For mourning Night her blacke weedes may display
O Phaebus, with good cause thy face thou hidest,
Rather than haue thy all-beholding eye
Fowl'd with this sight, while thou thy chariot guidest;
And well, me thinkes, becomes this vaultie skie
A stately tombe to couer him deceased.
Your dolefull tunes, sweet Muses, now applie.

O Philomela, with thy breast oppressed
By shame and griefe, helpe, helpe me to lament
Such cursed harmes as cannot be redressed.
Or if thy mourning notes be fully spent,
Then giue a quiet eare vnto my plaining,
For I to teach the world complaint am bent.
You dimmie clouds, which well employ your staining
This chearfull ayre with your obscured cheare,
Witnesse your wofull teares with daily raining.
And if, O sinne, thou euer didst appeare
In shape which by man's eye might be perceiued,
Vertue is dead, now set thy triumph here;
Now set thy triumph in this world, bereaued
Of what was good, where now no good doth lie,
And by thy pompe our losse will be conceiued.
O notes of mine, your selues together tie,
With too much griefe me thinkes you are dissolued.
Your dolefull tunes, sweet Muses, now applie.
Time, euer old and young, is still reuolued
Within it selfe, and neuer tasteth end;
But mankind is for aye to nought resolued.
The filthy snake her aged coate can mend,
And, getting youth againe, in youth doth flourish;
But vnto man age euer death doth send.
The very trees with grafting we can cherish,
So that we can long time produce their time;
But man, which helpeth them, helplesse must perish.
Thus, thus the mindes which ouer all doe clime,
When they by yeares' experience get best graces,
Must finish then by death's detested crime.
We last short while, and build long lasting places;
Ah, let vs all against foule Nature cry,
We Nature's workes do helpe, she vs defaces:
For how can Nature vnto this reply?
That she her childe, I say, her best childe killeth?
Your dolefull tunes, sweet Muses, now apply.

Alas, me thinkes my weakned voice but spilleth
The vehement course of his iust lamentation,
Me thinkes my sound no place with sorrow filleth:
I know not, I, but once in detestation
I haue my selfe, and all that life containeth,
Since death on Vertue's fort hath made inuasion.
One word of woe another after traineth:
Ne doe I care how rude be my inuention,
So it be seene what sorrow in me raigneth.
O Elements, by whose (men say) contention
Our bodies be in liuing power maintained,
Was this man's death the fruit of your dissension?
O Physicke's power, which (some say) hath restrained
Approach of death, alas, thou helpest meagerly,
When once one is for Atropos distrained.
Great be Physitians' brags, but aide is beggerly;
When rooted moisture failes or groweth drie,
They leaue off all, and say, death comes too eagerly:
They are but words, therefore, that men doe buy
Of any, since god Aesculapius ceased:
Your dolefull tunes, sweet Muses, now apply.

Iustice, iustice is now, alas, oppressed;
Bountifulnesse hath made his last conclusion;
Goodnesse for best attire in dust is dressed.
Shepheards bewaile your vttermost confusion,
And see by this picture to you presented
Death is our home, life is but a delusion.
For see, alas, who is from you absented —
Absented? nay, I say, for euer banished
From such as were to dye for him contented.
Out of our sight, in turne of hand, is vanished
Shepheard of shepheards, whose well setled order
Priuate with wealth, publike with quiet garnished.
While he did liue, farre, farre was all disorder;
Example more preuailing than direction,
Far was home-strife, and far was foe from border,
His life a law, his looke a full correction;
As in his health we healthfull were preserued,
So in his sicknesse grew our sure infection:
His death our death. But, ah, my Muse hath swarued
Fro such deepe plaint as should such woes descrie,
Which he of vs for euer hath deserued:
The stile of heauie heart can neuer flie
So high as should make such a paine notorious.
Cease, Muse, therefore; thy dart, O Death, applie;
And farewell, Prince, whom goodnesse hath made glorious.