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| Elegy funer. |
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| Sorrow wch to this house scarse knewe the way [164] |
| Is, oh, heyre of it, our all is his pray |
| This strange chance claymes strange wondr, and to vs |
| Nothing can bee so strange as to weepe thus. |
| Tis well his liues lowd speaking workes deserue |
| And giue prayse too, our cold tongues could not serue |
| Tis well hee kept teares from our eyes before |
| That to fitt this deepe ill wee might haue store. |
| Ô, if a sweete Bryar climb vp by a Tree |
| If to a Paradise that transplanted bee |
| Or feld and burnt for holy sacrifice |
| Yet that must wither wch by it did rise, |
| As wee for him dead. Though no family |
| Ere riggd a soule for heauens discouery |
| With whome more venturers more boldly dare |
| Venture theyr states with him in ioye to share |
| Wee loose what all things* lou'd, him, hee gaynes now |
| But life by death, wch worst foes would allow |
| (If hee could haue foes, in whose practize grew |
| All virtues whose names subtill Schoolemen knew.) |
| What ease can, hope wee shall see him, beget |
| When wee must dye first, and cannot dye yet? |
| His Children are his Pictures. Oh they bee |
| Pictures of him dead, sencelesse, cold, as hee |
| Heere needes no Marble Tombe, since hee is gon |
| Hee, and about him, His, ar turnd to stone.
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[CW: Death I___] |