William Drummond - Poems: The First Part XXVIII lyrics

Sound hoarse, sad lute, true witness of my woe, And strive no more to ease self-chosen pain With soul-enchanting sounds; your accents strain Unto these tears incessantly which flow. Shrill treble, weep; and you, dull ba**es, show Your master's sorrow in a deadly vein; Let never joyful hand upon you go, Nor consort keep but when you do complain. Fly Phoebus' rays, nay, hate the irksome light; Woods' solitary shades for thee are best, Or the black horrors of the blackest night, When all the world, save thou and I, doth rest: Then sound, sad lute, and bear a mourning part, Thou hell mayst move, though not a woman's heart.