THE SONG

  Eyes, can ye not refraine your hourely weeping?

  Eares, how are you depriv'd of sweete attention?

  Thoughts, have you lost your quiet silent sleeping.

  Wit, who hath rob'd thee of thy rare invention?

    The lacke of these, being life and motion giving:

    Are senselesse shapes, and no true signes of living.

  Eyes, when you gaz'd upon her Angell beauty;

  Eares, while you heard her sweete delitious straines,

  Thoughts (sleeping then) did yet performe their duty,

  Wit, tooke sprightly pleasure in his paines.

    While shee did live, then none of these were scanting,

    But now (being dead) they all are gone, and wanting.

  After that Dioneus (by proceeding no further) declared the finishing

of his Song; many more were sung beside, and that of Dioneus highly

commended. Some part of the night being spent in other delightfull

exercises, and a fitting houre for rest drawing on: they betooke

themselves to their Chambers, where we will leave them till to

morrow morning.