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That so sweetly were forsworn ;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights which do mislead the morn.
But my kisses bring again,

Seals of love, tho' seal'd in vain.

Hide, O! hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow,
Are of those that April wears.

But my poor heart first set free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.


Let the bird of lowest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad, and trumpet be,

To whose sound chaste wings obey :
But thou, shrieking harbinger,
Foul procurer of the fiend,

Augur of the fever's end,

To this troop come thou not near.
From this session interdict

Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather'd king.
Keep the obsequy so strict;
Lest the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music ken,
Be the death-divining swan,
Let the requiem lack his right.
And thou, treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak'st,
With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,
'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence :
Love and constancy is dead,
Phoenix and the turtle fled

In a mutual flame from hence;
So they lov'd, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts but in none,
Number there in love was slain:
Hearts remote, yet not asunder,
Distance, and no space was seen,

"Twixt the turtle and his queen,
But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the Phoenix' sight,
Either was the other mine.
Property was thus appalled,
That the self was not the same,
Single natures, double name,
Neither two nor one was called.
Reason 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 threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragick scene.


Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Hence inclos'd, in cynders lie:
Death is now the phoenix's 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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