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?