George Kirbye - Up then, Melpomene - текст песни (слова)

Up, then, Melpomene, the mournful'st Muse of nine, 
 Such cause of mourning never had'st afore. 
 Up, grisly ghosts, and up my rueful rime, 
 Matter of mirth now shalt thou have no more, 
 For dead she is, that mirth thee made of yore: 
 Dido, my dear, alas, is dead; 
 Dead and lieth wrap'd in lead. 
 O, heavy hearse, 
 Let streaming tears be poured out in store. 
 O, careful verse.