Ilence augmenteth grief! writing increaseth rage!
Stald are my thoughts, which loved and lost the wonder of our age.
Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now,
Enraged I write, I know not what. Dead, quick, I know not how.
Hard-hearted minds relent, and Rigour's tears abound,
And Envy strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found;
Knowledge her light hath lost; Valour hath slain her Knight:
Sidney is dead! Dead is my friend! Dead is the world's delight.
Place pensive wails his fall, whose presence was her pride.
Time crieth out "my ebb is come; his life was my springtide."