The rape of Lucrece [1121-1148] lyrics

The little birds that tune their morning's joy

Make her moans mad with their sweet melody:

For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy;

Sad souls are slain in merry company;

Grief best is pleased with grief's society:

True sorrow then is feelingly sufficed

When with like semblance it is sympathized.

'Tis double death to drown in ken of shore;

He ten times pines that pines beholding food;

To see the salve doth make the wound ache more;

Great grief grieves most at that would do it good;

Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,

Who being stopp'd, the bounding banks o'erflows;

Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows.

'You mocking-birds,' quoth she, 'your tunes entomb

Within your hollow-swelling feather'd breasts,

And in my hearing be you mute and dumb:

My restless discord loves no stops nor rests;

A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests:

Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears;

Distress likes dumps when time is kept with tears.

'