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Sonnet. 2.
[Weepe euerlastingly, you Nymphs diuine]
Weepe euerlastingly, you Nymphs diuine,
Your very Quintessence is waste and spent:
Sigh, grone and weepe, with wofull languishment,
Dead is the life that made your Glories shine.
The heau'nly numbers of your Sacred nine,
He tun'd as an Aetheriall Instrument,
So sweet, as if the Gods did all consent
In him their Consort holy to combine.
Weepe, Muses, euerlasting lament,
Eclipsed is your Sire Apollo's shrine:
Grim Death, the life hath from your Champion rent,
And therefore sigh, grone, weepe, lament and pine:
And let the Lawrell rot, consume and wither,
Dye, Muses, and be Tomb'd with him together.
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