The gelid North growes warme, and by thy fire Cold ignorance exil'd. The Virgin Quire O' th' soft-hayr'd Muses leave the Thespian Spring, To tread a fun'rall Measure, whilst you sing This Tragick Storie. With sad plaints of love Fam'd Orpheus charm'd rude heapes, did Cedars moove, Forc'd Mountaines from their station: but by thy Pen Hath new amaz'd the firie soules of men.
