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A true Subiects sorowe, for the losse of his late Soueraigne.
I Ioyne not handes with sorowe for a while,
To soothe the time, or please the hungrie cares:
Nor do inforce my mercinarie stile,
No feigned liuerye my Inuention weares.
Nor do I ground my fabulous discourse
On what before hath vsually bene seene:
My greife doth flowe from a more plentious source,
From her that dy'd a virgin and a Queene.
You Cristall Nimphes that haunt the banks of Thames,
Tune your sad Timbrils in this wofull day:
And force the swift windes and the sliding streames
To stand a while and listen to your Lay.
Your fading Temples bound about with vewe,
At euery step your hands deuoutly wring,
Let one notes fall anothers height renewe,
And with compassion your sad Naenia sing.
Graces and Muses waite vpon her Hearse:
Three are the first, the last the sacred Nine:
The sad'st of which, in a blacke tragique verse,
Shall sing the Requiem passing to her shrine.