less than mortal.

But she who was more than mortal was mortal too. This was no lady of the
unanimous lyrists, but a rare visitant unknown to these exquisite little
talents. She was not set for singing, but poetry spoke of her; sometimes
when she was sleeping, and then Fletcher said--

None can rock Heaven to sleep but her.

Or when she was singing, and Carew rhymed--

Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Sometimes when the lady was dead, and Carew, again, wrote on her
monument--

And here the precious dust is laid,
Whose purely-tempered clay was made
So fine that it the guest betrayed.

But there was besides another Lady of the lyrics; one who will never pass
from the world, but has passed from song. In the sixteenth century and
in the seventeenth century this lady was Death. Her inspiration never
failed; not a poet but found it as fresh as the inspiration of life.
Fancy was not quenched by the inevitable thought in those days, as it is
in ours, and the phrase lost no dignity by the integrity of use.