Weep , weep, you Muses, drain the springs,
Such notes go warble to the strings,
Such dirges as the ravens sound
When ghosts run trembling through the ground:
The fairest of her sex is dead,
Her tender limbs are wrapped in lead;
Her eyes, stars envy, the earth's pride,
The broad black hand of Death does hide;
In Death's dark chamber, now she lies,
Pale as the snow, and cold as ice.

Chorus.

The grave, the lovely grave will bring us ease,
There we shall sweetly sleep in downy peace;
There no distractions, nor jealousies be,
But all from inordinate passions are free:
The cold tomb is free from hot loye and desire;
It has ashes good store, but admits of no fire:
There men do never groan, nor women cry,
But all things, hushed, in solemn silence, lie.