Let old Timotheus yield the prize

But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he.

All things are hush'd, as Nature's self lay dead, The Mountains seem to nod their drowsy head; The little Birds in dreams their Songs repeat, And sleeping Flowers, beneath the night-dew sweat; Even Lust and Envy sleep.

Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.

So softly death succeeded life in her, She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.

An horrid stillness first invades the ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.

Their heavenly harps a lower strain began, And in soft music mourn the fall of man.