Go, soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Prais'd be Diana's fair and harmless light;
Prais'd be the dews wherewith she moists the ground;
Prais'd be her beams, the glory of the night;
Prais'd be her power by which all powers abound.
What is our life? A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
As you came from the holy land
Met you not with my true love
By the way as you came?
Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn; and, passing by that way,
To see that buried dust of living fame,