Classic Poem

Hee's dead: Oh what harsh musicks there
Unto a choyce, and curious eare!
Wee must that Discord surely call,
Since sighs doe rise, and teares doe fall.
Teares fall too low, sighes rise too high,
How then can there be Harmony?
But who is he? him may wee know
That jarres, and spoiles sweet consort soe?
O Death, 'tis thou: you false time keepe,
And stretch'st thy dismall voice too deepe.
Long time to Quavering age you give,
But to Large youth short time to Live.
You take upon you too too much,
In striking where you should not touch.
How out of tune the world now lies,
Since youth must fall, when it should rise!
Gone be all Consort, since alone
He, that once bore the best part, 's gone.
Whose whole life Musick was; wherein
Each vertue for a part came in.
And though that Musick of his life be still
The Musick of his name yett soundeth shrill.