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THE SONGE.

HILAS.
'Tis Sad,
What wee must Sing;
A Storie made
To pussle verse;

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For (ah) what number can reherse
The Sorrowes of the King?

STREPHON.
Oh, Sing noe more,
But throw away your oaten Reeds.
What voice or Qvill
Can reach this note? the Thistle seeds
Where Roses sprung before,
And Lillyes grac'd ye Hill.

HILAS.
Then farewell Softer Layes!
This Sullen Straine
Is musicall, and worthy praise.
When wee complaine,
Wee may be loud;
And Greife disord'red is not rude.

STREPHON.
Let Love & Witt
Polish smooth Accents, & affect a Cleare
Current in Numbers; Sorrow here
Is all our Muse; & what may fitt
So deepe a Passion, wee now bring,
Tears, Grones, & Sighes, attendants to the King.

CHORUS.
Then breake our Pipes, while wee forgett All verse,
And make it out in Sighs, in grones, and Tears.