The Elm is drooping, and the wreaths of Bay
Are chang’d to Cypress, and the Comedie
Is metamorphos’d to a Tragedie.
I do desire you, Friend, for to unfold
This matter to me.’ ‘Sir, ’tis truth you’ve told.
We did enjoy great mirth, but now, ah me!
Our joyful Song’s turned to an Elegie.
A vertuous Lady, not long since a Bride,
Was to a hopeful plant by marriage ty’d,
And brought home hither. We did all rejoyce,