John Dowland

* * *

Come ye heavy states of night,
Do my father's spirit right,
Soundings baleful let me borrow,
Burthening my song with sorrow.
Come sorrow come her eyes that sings,
By thee are turned into springs.

Come you virgins of the night,
That in dirges sad delight,
Choir my anthems, I do borrow
Gold nor pearl, but sounds of sorrow:
Come sorrow come her eyes that sings,
By thee are turned into springs.