[From “Adrasta,” a Tragi-comedy, by John Jones, 1635.]
Dirge.
Die, die, ah die!
We all must die:
’Tis Fate’s decree;
Then ask not why.
When we were framed, the Fates consultedly
Did make this law, that all things born should die.
Yet Nature strove,
And did deny
We should be slaves
To Destiny.
At which, they heapt
Such misery;
That Nature’s self
Did wish to die:
And thank their goodness, that they would foresee
To end our cares with such a mild decree.
Another.
Come, Lovers, bring your cares,
Bring sigh-perfumed sweets;
Bedew the grave with tears,
Where Death with Virtue meets.
Sigh for the hapless hour,
That knit two hearts in one;
And only gave Love power
To die, when ’twas begun.
[From “Tancred and Gismund,” acted before the Court by the Gentlemen of the Inner Temple, 1591.]
A Messenger brings to Gismund a cup from the King her Father, enclosing the heart of her Lord, whom she had espoused without his sanction.
Mess. Thy father, O Queen, here in this cup hath sent
The thing to joy and comfort thee withal,
Which thou lovedst best: ev’n as thou wast content
To comfort him with his best joy of all.
Gis. I thank my father, and thee, gentle Squire;
For this thy travail; take thou for thy pains
This bracelet, and commend me to the King.