The Song.
Eyes, can ye not refraine your hourely weeping?
Eares, how are you deprivde of sweete attention?
Thoughts, have you lost your quiet silent sleeping?
Wit, who hath robde thee of thy rare invention?
The lacke of these, being life and motion giving:
Are sencelesse shapes, and no true signes of living.
Eyes, when you gazde upon her Angell beauty;
Eares, while you heard her sweete delicious straines,
Thoughts (sleeping then) did yet performe their duty,
Wit, then tooke sprightly pleasure in his paines.
While shee did live, then none of these were scanting,
But now (being dead) they all are gone and wanting.
After that Dioneus (by proceeding no further) declared the finishing of his Song; many more were sung beside, and that of Dioneus highly commended. Some part of the night being spent in other delightfull exercises, and a fitting houre for rest drawing on: they betooke themselves to their Chambers, where we will leave them till to morrow morning.