|
| 'Tis well, his lifes loud speaking works deserve, |
| And give praise too, our cold tongues could not serve: |
| 'Tis well, he kept tears from our eyes before, |
| That to fit this deep ill, we might have store. |
| Oh, if a sweet-bryer climb up by a tree, |
| If to a paradise that transplanted be, |
| Or fell'd, and burnt for holy sacrifice, |
| yet, that must wither, which by it did rise, |
| As we for him dead: though no family |
| 'Ere rigg'd a soul for heavens discovery |
| With whom more Venturers more boldly dare |
| Venture their states, with him in joy to share, |
| We loose what all friends lov'd, him, he gains now |
| But life by death, which worst foes would allow, |
| If he could have foes, in whose practise grew |
| All vertues, whose name subtle School-men knew; |
| What ease, can hope that we shall see him, beget, |
| When we must dy first, and cannot dy yet? |
| His children are his pictures, Oh they be |
| Pictures of him dead, sensless, cold as he. |
| Here needs no marble tomb, since he is gone, |
| He, and about him, his, are turn'd to stone. |
|
| Upon Mr. Thomas Coryats Crudities. |
|
| Oh to what height will love of greatness drive |
| Thy learned spirit, Sesqui-superlative? |
| Venice vast lake thou hast seen, and wouldst seek than, |
| Some vaster thing, and found'st a Courtizan. |
| That in-land Sea, having discovered well, |
| A Cellar gulf, where one might sail to hell
|
[CW: From] |