This page has been validated.
the
Bride's Burial, &c.
Come mourn, come mourn with me;
ye loyal lovrs all;
Lament my loſs in weeds of woe,
whom gripping death doth thrall
Like to the drooping vine,
cut by the gard‘ner's knife,
Even ſo my heart, with ſorry ſlain
doth mourn for my ſweet wife,
By death, that grizly Goſt,
my turtle dove was ſlain,
And I’m left, unhappy man,
to ſpend my days in vain.
Her beauty, late ſo bright,
like roles in their prime,
Is waſted like the mountain ſnow
by froſt of Phœbus ſhine.
