She all night long her amorous descant sung: Silence was pleased.

And Cupid winds his shrill-note buglehorn, For joy my silly heart so near is spent: Desire, that eager cur, pursues the chase, And fortune rides amain unto the fall; Now sorrow sings, and mourning bears a part, Playing harsh descant on my yielding heart.

The King of France takes the lead, having in view no doubt the advice of Buckingham to Richard III: A pray'r book in your hand, my Lord, were well, For on that ground I'll make an holy descant.

The last chapter of the Urn Burial is an almost rhythmical descant on mortality and oblivion.