My soules at war and truth bids her
Finde out their hidden Sepulcher,
To give her troubles peace.
Pregnant with flowers doth not the Spring
Like a late bride appeare?
Whose fether'd Musicke onely bring
Caresses, and no Requiem sing
On the departed yeare?
The Earth, like some rich wanton heire,
Whose Parents coffin'd lye,