I join not hands with sorrow for a while,
To sooth the time, or please the hungry cares;
Nor do enforce my mercenary style,
No feigned livery my invention wears.
Nor do I ground my fabulous discourse
On what before hath usually been seen;
My grief doth flow from a more plenteous source,
From her that died a virgin and a queen.
You crystal nymphs that haunt the banks of Thames,
Tune your sad timbrils in this woeful day:
And force the swift winds and the sliding streams
To stand a while and listen to your lay.
