Whilst my heart bleeding writes that deadlie wound
Receaved of late in honnors overthrow
With our brave Prince, whose worth noe words can sound
Sorrow must dictate, what my zeale would shew
Sorrow for that deare Treasure wee have loste,
Zeale to the memorie of what wee had,
And that is all they cann, that cann saye moste.
Soe sings my Muse, in zeale and sorrow clad.
Soe sung Achilles to his Silver Harpe,
When fowle affroont had reft his faire delight,
Soe sings sweet Philomel against the sharpe
Soe sings the Swan , when lyfe is taking flight.
Soe sings my Zeale the notes that sorrow weepes
Which antheme sung my Muse for ever sleepes.