The heavens do melt in tears without remorse;
O careful verse!
O trustless state of earthly things, and slipper hope
Of mortal men, that swink and sweat for nought,
And, shooting wide, do miss the marked scope;
Now have I learn'd (a lesson dearly bought)
That n'is on earth assurance to be sought;
For what might be in earthly mould,
That did her buried body hold;
O heavy hearse !
Yet saw I on the bier where it was brought;
O careful verse!
But maugre Death, and dreaded Sister's deadly spite,
And gates of hell, and fiery Furies force,
She hath the bonds broke of eternal night,
Her soul unbodied of the burdenous corpse;
Why then weeps Lobin so, without remorse?
O Lob, thy loss no longer lament,
Dido n'is dead, but into heaven pent;
Cease now, my Muse, now cease thy sorrows' source, O joyful verse!
Why wail we then, why weary we the gods with
As if some evil were to her betight?
She reigns a goddess now among the saints,
That whilome was the saint of shepherd's light,
And is installed now in heaven's height;
I see thee, blessed soul, I see
Walk in Elysian fields so free.
O happy hearse!
Might I once come to thee, (O that I might !)
O joyful verse!
Unwise, and wretched men to meet what's good, or ill;
We deem of Death as doom of ill desert,
But knew we, fools, what it us brings until,
Die would we daily, once it to expert;
No danger there the shepherd can astert ;
Fair fields and pleasant leas there bene,
The fields aye fresh, the grass aye green,
O happy hearse!
Make haste, ye shepherds, thither to revert ;
O joyful verse!
Dido is gone afore; whose turn shall be the next?
There lives she with the blessed gods in bliss,
There drinks she nectar, with ambrosia mixt,
And joys enjoys that mortal men do miss;
The honour now of highest gods she is,
That whilome was poor shepherd's pride,
While here on earth she did abide.
Cease now, my song, my woe now wasted is ;
O joyful verse!
O now my year draws to his latter term,
My spring is spent, my summer burnt up
quite,
My harvest hastes to stir up winter stern,
And bid him claim with rigorous rage his right;
So now he storms with many a sturdy stour,
So now his blustering blast each coast doth scour.
The careful cold hath nipt my rugged rind,
And, in my face, deep furrows eld hath pight;
My head besprent with hoary frost I find,
And by mine eye the crow his claw doth write;
Delight is laid abed, and pleasure past;
No sun now shines, clouds have all overcast.
Now leave, ye shepherd's boys, your merry glee,
My Muse is hoarse, and weary of this stound,
Here will I hang my pipe upon this tree,
Was never pipe of reed did better sound;
Winter is come, that blows the bitter blast,
And, after winter, dreary Death does haste.
Gather ye together my little flock,
My little flock that was to me so lief,
Let me, ah! let me, in your folds ye lock,
Ere the breme winter breed you greater grief;
Winter is come, that blows the baleful breath
And, after winter, cometh timely Death.
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