"No" was set to counterpoint in the part-song, and she frightened Love out of her sight in a ballet. Those occupations are gone, and the lovely Elizabethan has slipped away. She was something less than mortal.
But she who was more than mortal was mortal too. This was no lady of the unanimous lyrists, but a rare visitant unknown to these exquisite little talents. She was not set for singing, but poetry spoke of her; sometimes when she was sleeping, and then Fletcher said—
None can rock Heaven to sleep but her.
Or when she was singing, and Carew rhymed—
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.
Sometimes when the lady was dead, and Carew, again, wrote on her monument—
And here the precious dust is laid,
Whose purely-tempered clay was made
So fine that it the guest betrayed.
But there was besides another Lady of the lyrics; one who will never pass from the
