Goe solitary wood, and henceforth be

Acquainted with no other Harmonie,

Then the Pyes chattering, or the shreeking note

Of bodeing Owles, and fatall Ravens throate.

Thy sweetest Chanters dead, that warbled forth

Layes, that might tempests calme, and still the North;

And call downe Angels from their glorious Spheare

To heare her Songs, and learne new Anthems there.

That soule is fled, and to Elisium gone;

Thou a poore desert left; goe then and runne,

Begge there to stand a grove, and if shee please

To sing againe beneath thy shadowy Trees;

The soules of happy Lovers crown’d with blisses

Shall flock about thee, and keepe time with kisses.