Come ye heavy states of night,
Doe my fathers spirit right,
Soundings balefull let me borrow,
But thening my song with sorrow,
Come sorrow come her eyes that sings,
By thee are turned into springs.
Come you Virgins of the night,
That in Dirges sad delight,
Quiet my Anthems, I doe borrow
Gold nor pearle, but sounds of sorrow :
Come sorrow come her eyes that sings,
By thee are turned into springs.
