Tixall Poetry/A Dirge
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.
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.
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.
Ah! ah! my loves dead, there was not a bell, But a tritons shell, To ring, to ring out his knell.