Page:Bride's burial, or, The affectionate lovers (2).pdf/2



mourn, come mourn with me,

ye loyal Lovers all;

Lament my loſs in weeds of woe,

whom gripping death doth thrall.

Like to the dropping Vine,

cut by the gard'ner's knife,

Even ſo my heart, with ſorrow ſlain,

doth mourn for my ſweet wife.

By Death, that grizly Ghoſt,

my turtle dove was ſlain,

And I am left, unhappy man,

to ſpend my days in vain.

Her beauty, late ſo bright,

like roſes in their prime,

Is waſted like the mountain ſnow,

by force of Phœbus ſhine.