But ah! too well I wot my humble vein,
And how my rhymes be rugged and unkempt;
Yet, as I con, my conning I will strain.
"Up, then, Melpomene! the mournful'st Muse of Nine,
Such cause of mourning never hadst afore;
Up, grisly ghosts! and up my rueful rhyme!
Matter of mirth now shalt thou have no more;
For dead she is, that mirth thee made of yore.
Dido, my dear, alas! is dead,
Dead, and lieth wrapt in lead.