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Tixall Poetry.
XVIII.
A Dirge.
Ile goe to my love, where hee lies in the deepe,
And in my imbraces my deerest shall sleepe:
When we wake, the kind dolphins together shall throng,
And in chariots of shels shall draw us along.
And in my imbraces my deerest shall sleepe:
When we wake, the kind dolphins together shall throng,
And in chariots of shels shall draw us along.
The orient pearle, which the ocean bestowes,
With corral! wele mix, and a crown soe compose;
The sea nimphs shall sigh, and envy our blisse,
We will teach them to laugh, and there cockles to kisse.
With corral! wele mix, and a crown soe compose;
The sea nimphs shall sigh, and envy our blisse,
We will teach them to laugh, and there cockles to kisse.
For my love sleeps now in a watry grave,
He hath nothing to shew for his tombe but a wave:
He kisse his cold lips, not the corrall more red,
That growes where he lies in his watry bed.
He hath nothing to shew for his tombe but a wave:
He kisse his cold lips, not the corrall more red,
That growes where he lies in his watry bed.
Ah! ah! my loves dead, there was not a bell,
But a tritons shell,
To ring, to ring out his knell.
But a tritons shell,
To ring, to ring out his knell.
