King Pandion, he is dead

If music and sweet poetry agree. As they must needs (the sister and the brother), Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me, Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.

Every one that flatters thee Is no friends in misery. Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find. Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;

The waters were his winding sheet, the sea was made for his tomb; Yet for his fame the ocean sea, was not sufficient room.

But see! the pains begin to fly; Tho’ Venus bled she could not die: See the new phœnix point her eyes, And lovelier from her ashes rise.

Brighter from her disease she shines, As fire the precious gold refines. Thus when the silent grave becomes Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs; When the wide seas and spacious earth Resign us to our second birth;

'Tis the night—the night Of the grave's delight, And the warlocks are at their play! Ye think that without, The wild winds shout, But no, it is they—it is they!