Henry Constable (1562–1613)

GIVE pardon, blessèd soul, to my bold cries,

If they, importunate, interrupt the song

Which now, with joyful notes, thou sing’st among

The angel-choristers of heavenly skies.

Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes,

That since I saw thee now it is 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.