The Death of Lincoln

I am the signet to this pale faint swan. Who chants a doth him to his own death. And from the organ pipe of frailty sings his soul and body to their lasting rest. Be of good comfort prince. For you are born to set a form upon that indigest which he had left so shapeless and so rude. I marry now my soul hath held a room. It would not howt at windows nor doors. There is so hot a summer in my bosom that all my bowes crumble up to dust. Against this fire do I shrink up. How fair is your majesty. Poisoned. Ill-fair, dead for some cast off.