His Lachrymæ; or, Mirth Turned to Mourning

Call me no more,As heretofore,The music of a feast;Since now, alas!The mirth that wasIn me is dead or ceas'd.

Before I went,To banishment,Into the loathed west,I could rehearseA lyric verse,And speak it with the best.

But time, ay me!Has laid, I see,

My organ fast asleep,And turn'd my voiceInto the noiseOf those that sit and weep.