Urge me no more

Urge me no more, this airy mirth belongs

To better times, these times are not for songs.

The sprightly twang of the melodious lute

Agrees not with my voice, and both unsuit

My untun'd fortunes. Th'affected measure

Of strains that are constrained afford no pleasure.

Music's the child of mirth, where griefs assail

The troubled soul, both voice and fingers fail;

My grief's too great for smiling eyes

To cure or counter charms to exorcise.

The raven's dismal croaks, the midnight howls

Of empty wolves mix'd with the screech of owls,

The nine sad knolls of a dull passing bell,

With the loud language of a nightly knell,

And horrid outcries of revenged crimes,

Join'd in a medley, is music for these times.

These are no times to touch the merry strings

Of Orpheus, no, Ah! no, these are no times to sing.

How can my music relish in your ears,

That cannot speak for sobs nor sing for tears?