|1||1||1||POET||Let the bird of loudest lay,|
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.
|2||1||2||POET||But thou shrieking harbinger,|
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever's end,
To this troop come thou not near!
|3||1||3||POET||From this session interdict|
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather'd king:
Keep the obsequy so strict.
|4||1||4||POET||Let the priest in surplice white,|
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.
|5||1||5||POET||And thou treble-dated crow,|
That thy sable gender makest
With the breath thou givest and takest,
'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
|6||1||6||POET||Here the anthem doth commence:|
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.
|7||1||7||POET||So they loved, as love in twain|
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.
|8||1||8||POET||Hearts remote, yet not asunder;|
Distance, and no space was seen
'Twixt the turtle and his queen:
But in them it were a wonder.
|9||1||9||POET||So between them love did shine,|
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenix' sight;
Either was the other's mine.
|10||1||10||POET||Property was thus appalled,|
That the self was not the same;
Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was called.
|11||1||11||POET||Reason, in itself confounded,|
Saw division grow together,
To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded,
|12||1||12||POET||That it cried, How true a twain|
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain.
|13||1||13||POET||Whereupon it made this threne|
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.
|15||1||15||POET||Beauty, truth, and rarity,|
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclosed in cinders lie.
|16||1||16||POET||Death is now the phoenix' nest|
And the turtle's loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,
|17||1||17||POET||Leaving no posterity:|
'Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.
|18||1||18||POET||Truth may seem, but cannot be:|
Beauty brag, but 'tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.
|19||1||19||POET||To this urn let those repair|
That are either true or fair
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.