Act 1, Scene 1 — The Phoenix and the Turtle

Poet
Let the bird of loudest lay,

On the sole Arabian tree,

Herald sad and trumpet be,

To whose sound chaste wings obey.
Poet
But thou shrieking harbinger,

Foul precurrer of the fiend,

Augur of the fever's end,

To this troop come thou not near!
Poet
From this session interdict

Every fowl of tyrant wing,

Save the eagle, feather'd king:

Keep the obsequy so strict.
Poet
Let the priest in surplice white,

That defunctive music can,

Be the death-divining swan,

Lest the requiem lack his right.
Poet
And thou treble-dated crow,

That thy sable gender makest

With the breath thou givest and takest,

'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Poet
Here the anthem doth commence:

Love and constancy is dead;

Phoenix and the turtle fled

In a mutual flame from hence.
Poet
So they loved, as love in twain

Had the essence but in one;

Two distincts, division none:

Number there in love was slain.
Poet
Hearts remote, yet not asunder;

Distance, and no space was seen

'Twixt the turtle and his queen:

But in them it were a wonder.
Poet
So between them love did shine,

That the turtle saw his right

Flaming in the phoenix' sight;

Either was the other's mine.
Poet
Property was thus appalled,

That the self was not the same;

Single nature's double name

Neither two nor one was called.
Poet
Reason, in itself confounded,

Saw division grow together,

To themselves yet either neither,

Simple were so well compounded,
Poet
That it cried, How true a twain

Seemeth this concordant one!

Love hath reason, reason none,

If what parts can so remain.
Poet
Whereupon it made this threne

To the phoenix and the dove,

Co-supremes and stars of love,

As chorus to their tragic scene.
Poet
THRENOS.
Poet
Beauty, truth, and rarity,

Grace in all simplicity,

Here enclosed in cinders lie.
Poet
Death is now the phoenix' nest

And the turtle's loyal breast

To eternity doth rest,
Poet
Leaving no posterity:

'Twas not their infirmity,

It was married chastity.
Poet
Truth may seem, but cannot be:

Beauty brag, but 'tis not she;

Truth and beauty buried be.
Poet
To this urn let those repair

That are either true or fair

For these dead birds sigh a prayer.