Turn’d these short hours into long days, that I
Might dread Deaths approach, when she should dye.
But she is gone past all recal; and we
Can only weep and sigh her Elegie.
Though we don’t mourn she can no Mourners lack,
Each Nature is at her sad death in Black,
Methinks they’re hoarse with crying, and their votes
(Being sad, and doleful) do befit their Coats.
The Clouds dropt tears; the Ayry-Quire (which flies
Over our heads) do sing her Obsequies.