From John Milton's “Lycidas” (1637):

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
    Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
    I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
    And with forc'd fingers rude
    Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
    Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
    Compels me to disturb your season due;
    For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
    Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
  Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
  Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
  He must not float upon his wat'ry bier
  Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
  Without the meed of some melodious tear.