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Through Erymanth your loss deplore,
Bring your flocks, and live with us;
To serve the lady of this place.
Though Syrinx your Pan's mistress were,
Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.
Such a rural queen
All Arcadia hath not seen.
In this monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester, on the Irish seas, 1637; and by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height.
YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Begin then, Sisters of the Sacred Well!
With lucky words favour my destined urn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud :
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade and rill.