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| A Funerall Elegie. |
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| 'Tis lost to trust a Tombe with such a guest, |
| Or to confine her in a marble chest, |
| Alas, what's Marble, Jeat, or Porphyrie, |
| Priz'd with the Chrysolite of either eye, |
| Or with those Pearles, and Rubies, which she was? |
| Joyne the two Indies in one Tombe, 'tis glasse; |
| And so is all to her materials, |
| Though every inch were ten Escurials; |
| Yet she's demolish'd: can wee keepe her then |
| In works of hands, or of the wits of men? |
| Can these memorials, ragges of paper, give |
| Life to that name, by which name they must live? |
| Sickly, alas, short-liv'd, aborted bee |
| Those carcasse verses, whose soule is not shee. |
| And can shee, who no longer would be shee, |
| Being such a Tabernacle, stoop to be |
| In paper wrapt; or when shee would not lie |
| In such a house, dwell in an Elegie? |
| But 'tis no matter; wee may well allow |
| Verse to live so long as the world will now, |
| For her death wounded it. The world containes |
| Princes for armes, and counsellors for braines, |
| Lawyers for tongues, Divines for hearts, and more, |
| The rich for stomackes, and for backs the poore;
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[CW: The] |
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