On the Death of Phillips

Bewail with me, all ye that have professed
Of music th' art by touch of cord or wind;
Lay down your lutes and let your gitterns rest,
Phillips is dead, whose like you can not find,
Of music much exceeding all the rest.
Muses, therefore of force now must you wrest
Your pleasant notes into an other sound;
The string is broke, the lute is dispossessed,
The hand is cold, the body in the ground.
The lowering lute lamenteth now therefore
Phillips her friend that can her touch no more.
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