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Various Poetry
The Phoenix and the Turtle
William Shakespeare
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       Let the bird of loudest lay,
       On the sole Arabian tree,
       Herald sad and trumpet be,
       To whose sound chaste wings obey.
       But thou, shrieking harbinger,
       Foul pre-currer of the fiend,
       Augur of the fever's end,
       To this troop come thou not near.
       From this session interdict
       Every fowl of tyrant wing,
       Save the eagle, feather'd king:
       Keep the obsequy so strict.
       Let the priest in surplice white,
       That defunctive music can,
       Be the death-defying swan,
       Lest the requiem lack his right.
       And thou, treble-dated crow,
       That thy sable gender mak'st
       With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,
       'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
       Here the anthem doth commence:
       Love and constancy is dead;
       Phoenix and the turtle fled
       In a mutual flame from hence.
       So they lov'd, as love in twain
       Had the essence but in one;
       Two distincts, division none:
       Number there in love was slain.
       Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
       Distance, and no space was seen
       'Twixt the turtle and his queen;
       But in them it were a wonder.
       So between them love did shine,
       That the turtle saw his right
       Flaming in the phoenix' sight:
       Either was the other's mine.
       Property was thus appall'd,
       That the self was not the same;
       Single nature's double name
       Neither two nor one was call'd.
       Reason, in itself confounded,
       Saw division grow together;
       To themselves yet either-neither,
       Simple were so well compounded.
       That it cried how true a twain
       Seemeth this concordant one!
       Love hath reason, reason none
       If what parts can so remain.
       Whereupon it made this threne
       To the phoenix and the dove,
       Co-supreme and stars of love;
       As chorus to their tragic scene.
       THRENOS.
       Beauty, truth, and rarity.
       Grace in all simplicity,
       Here enclos'd in cinders lie.
       Death is now the phoenix' nest;
       And the turtle's loyal breast
       To eternity doth rest,
       Leaving no posterity:--
       'Twas not their infirmity,
       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
       That are either true or fair;
       For these dead birds sigh a prayer.