University of Virginia Library

Bewaile with me all ye

Of the death of Phillips.

Bewaile with me all ye that haue profest,
Of musicke tharte by touche of coarde or winde:
Laye downe your lutes and let your gitterns rest,
Phillips is dead whose like you can not finde.
Of musicke much exceadyng all the rest,
Muses therfore of force now must you wrest.
Your pleasant notes into an other sounde,
The string is broke, the lute is dispossest,
The hand is colde, the bodye in the grounde.
The lowring lute lamenteth now therfore,
Phillips her frende that can her touche no more.

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