The Song after they have retir'd (playing on their
Instruments) by the Chorus of Poets.
1
Take leave now of thy heart,
The beauty thou shalt streight survay
Will tempt it to depart
Thy royal breast, and melt away.
Yet when she finds thy breast is empty grown,
In just remorse shee'l fill it with her own,
So neither heart can mourn, or stray.
2
Back to our shades we go,
But see how heavily we move!
Alas! their feet are slow,
That leave the Object which they love.
Our dwelling is beneath, but those whose Bayes
Is chastly earn'd in thy corrected dayes,
Shall after death reside above.
After this,
Divine Poesie, and the Poets go forth; then the whole
Scæne changeth into Mist and Clouds, through which some glimpse
of a Temple is here and there scarcely discern'd.
