Where the bright seraphim in burning row
Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow.

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-imbroider'd vale
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well:
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?

Rhetoric . . . To which poetry would be made subsequent, or indeed rather precedent, as being less subtle and fine, but more simple, sensuous and passionate.

Our state cannot be severed, we are one,
One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.

Our torments also may in length of time
Become our Elements.

And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.