O heavy herse!

Mourn now, my Muse, now mourn with tears besprint;

O careful verse!

"O thou great shepheard, Lobbin, how great is thy grief?

Where be the nosegays that she dight for thee?

The coloured chaplets wrought with a chief,[20]

The knotted rush-rings, and gilt rosemary?

For she deemed nothing too dear for thee.

Ah! they be all yclad in clay;

One bitter blast blew all away.