Foote it featly heere, and there, and sweete Sprights beare
the burthen.

Burthen dispersedly.

Harke, harke, bowgh wawgh: the watch-Dogges barke,
bowgh-wawgh

Ar. Hark, hark, I heare, the straine of strutting Chanticlere
cry cockadidle-dowe

Fer. Where shold this Musick be? I'th aire, or th' earth?
It sounds no more: and sure it waytes vpon
Some God o'th' Iland, sitting on a banke,
Weeping againe the King my Fathers wracke.
This Musicke crept by me vpon the waters,
Allaying both their fury, and my passion
With it's sweet ayre: thence I haue follow'd it
(Or it hath drawne me rather) but 'tis gone.
No, it begins againe

Ariell Song. Full fadom fiue thy Father lies,
Of his bones are Corrall made:
Those are pearles that were his eies,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a Sea-change
Into something rich, & strange:
Sea-Nimphs hourly ring his knell.

Burthen: ding dong.