WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Reason, in itself confounded, Saw division grow together; To themselves yet either neither;
Simple were so well compounded,
That it cried, 'How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one* Love hath reason, reason none
If what parts can so remain.'
Whereupon it made this thrcne To the phoenix and the dove, Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.
THRENOS
BEAUTY, truth, and rarity, Grace in all simplicity, Here enclosed in cinders lie.
Death is now the phoenix' nest; And the turtle's loyal breast To eternity doth rest,
Leaving no posterity: 'Twas not their infirmity, It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but 'tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
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