Henry Constable (1562–1613)

GIVE pardon, blessed soul! to my bold cries,

If they, importune, interrupt thy song,

Which now with joyful notes thou singst among

The angels, quiristers of the heavenly skies.

Give pardon eke, sweet soul! to my slow cries,

That since I saw thee it is now so long;

And yet the tears that unto thee belong,

To thee as yet they did not sacrifice;

I did not know that thou wert dead before;

I did not feel the grief I did sustain;

The greater stroke astonisheth the more,

Astonishment takes from us sense of pain:

I stood amazed when others’ tears begun,

And now begin to weep when they have done.