Nay let me weep, though others’ tears be spent,
Though all eyes dried be, let mine be wet,
Unto thy grave I’ll pay this yearly rent,
Thy liveless Coarse demands of me this debt.
I owe more tears then ever Coarse did crave,
I’ll pay more tears than e’re was paid to grave.

Ne’re let the Sun with his deceiving light,
Seek to make glad these wat’ry eyes of mine,
My sorrow suits with melancholy night, 
I joy in dole, in languishment I pine,
My dearest friend is set, he was my Sun,
With whom my mirth, my joy, and all is done.

Yet if that age had frosted o’er his head, 
Or if his face had furrow'd been with years,
I would not thus bemoan that he is dead.
I might have been more niggard of my tears;
But O the Sun new rose is gone to bed,
And Lillies in their spring-time hang their head.