Classic Poem

If that were true which whispered is by Fame,
That Damon's light no more on earth doth burn,
His patron Phaebus physick would disclaim,
And cloath'd in clouds as erst for Phaeton mourn.

Yea, Fame by this had got so deep a wound,
That scarce she could have power to tell his death,
Her wings cut short; who could her trumpet sound,
Whose blaze of late was nurs'd but by his breath?

That sp'rit of his, which most with mine was free,
By mutual traffick enterchanging store;
If chas'd from him, it would have come to me,
Where it so oft familiar was before.

Some secret grief distemp'ring first my mind,
Had (though not knowing) made me feel this loss;
A smypathy had so our souls combin'd,
That such a parting both at once would toss.

Though such reports to others terror give,
Thy heavenly virtues who did never spy,
I know thou, that canst make the dead to live,
Immortal art, and needs not fear to dye.