Hung Over Her Enamour'd, And Beheld Beauty,

More Safe I Sing With Mortal Voice, Unchang'd To Hoarse Or Mute, Though Fall'n On Evil Days, On Evil Days Though Fall'n, And Evil Tongues.

Justice Divine Mends Not Her Slowest Pace For Prayers Or Cries.

Zeal And Duty Are Not Slow But On Occasion's Forelock Watchful Wait.

I Was All Ear, And Took In Strains That Might Create A Soul Under The Ribs Of Death.

And So Sepúlchred In Such Pomp Dost Lie, That Kings For Such A Tomb Would Wish To Die.