Vpon the Death of a Freind

Hee's dead! Oh what harsh musick's there
Vnto 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 giue,
But to large Youth, short time to liue.
You take vpon 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.