A Song.

MVsick thou Queene of soules, get up and string
Thy pow'rful Lute, and some sad requiem sing,
Till Rocks requite thy Eccho with a groane:
And the dull clifts repeate the duller tone:
Then on a suddaine with a nimble hand
Runnne gently o're the Chordes, and so command
The Pine to dance, the Oake his Roots forgoe,
The holme and aged Elme to foot it too;
Mirtles shall caper, lofty Cedars runne;
And call the Courtly Palme to make up one;
Then in the midst of all their Iolly traine,
Strike a sad note; and fixe 'em Trees againe.