Hee's dead: Oh what harsh musicks there Unto a choyce, and curious eare! Wee must that Discord surely call, Since sighs doe rise, and teares doe fall. Teares fall too low, sighes rise too high, How then can there be Harmony? But who is he? him may wee know That jarres, and spoiles sweet consort soe? O Death, 'tis thou: you false time keepe, And stretch'st thy dismall voice too deepe. Long time to Quavering age you give, But to Large youth short time to Live. You take upon you too too much, In striking where you should not touch. How out of tune the world now lies, Since youth must fall, when it should rise! Gone be all Consort, since alone He, that once bore the best part, 's gone. Whose whole life Musick was; wherein Each vertue for a part came in. And though that Musick of his life be still The Musick of his name yett soundeth shrill. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST by THOMAS GRAY WINTER RAIN by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 7 by ALFRED TENNYSON URANIA; THE WOMAN IN THE MOON: THE SECOND CANTO, OR FIRST QUARTER by WILLIAM BASSE SILENUS IN PROTEUS by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE FALCON by GRACE UPDEGRAFF BERGEN |