Page 2335 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclos’d, in cinders lie. [55]

Death is now the Phoenix’ nest,
And the Turtle’s loyal breast
To eternity doth rest.

Leaving no posterity,
’Twas not their infirmity, [60]
It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be;
Beauty brag, but ’tis not she;

Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair [65]
That are either true or fair:
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.