Call Me No More, As Heretofore, The Music Of A Feast; Since Now, Alas! The Mirth That Was In Me Is Dead Or Ceas'D. Before I Went, To Banishment, Into The Loathed West, I Could Rehearse A Lyric Verse, And Speak It With The Best. But Time, Ay Me! Has Laid, I See, My Organ Fast Asleep, And Turn'D My Voice Into The Noise Of Those That Sit And Weep.