human
Sir, 'tis truth you've told, We did enjoy great mirth; but now, ah me! Our joyful song's turned to an elegie. A virtuous lady, not long since a bride, Was to a hopeful plant by marriage tied, And brought home hither. We did all rejoice Even for her sake. But presently her voice Was turned to mourning for that little time That she'd enjoy: she waned in her prime, For Atropos, with her impartial knife, Soon cut her thread, and therewithal her life; And for the time, we may it well remember It being in unfortunate September; Where we must leave her till the resurrection, 'Tis then the Saints enjoy their full perfection.