Poems: The First Part XXVIII by William Drummond Lyrics

Sound hoarse, sad lute, true witness of my woe,
And strive no more to ease self-chosen pain
With soul-enchanting sounds; your accents strain
Unto these tears incessantly which flow.
Shrill treble, weep; and you, dull basses, show
Your master's sorrow in a deadly vein;
Let never joyful hand upon you go,
Nor consort keep but when you do complain.
Fly Phoebus' rays, nay, hate the irksome light;
Woods' solitary shades for thee are best,
Or the black horrors of the blackest night,
When all the world, save thou and I, doth rest:
Then sound, sad lute, and bear a mourning part,
Thou hell mayst move, though not a woman's heart.