Whence each leaf of life hath date, Where in sad particulars The total sum of man appears; And the short clause of mortal breath, Bound in the period of Death: In all the book, if anywhere Such a term as this, Spare here, Could have been found, 'twould have been read, Writ in white letters o'er his head: Or close unto his name annexed, The fair gloss of a fairer text. In brief, if any one were free, But he, alas! even he is dead, All the tears that Grief can lend. In his ashes all her pride; With this inscription o'er his head: This stone will tell thee, that beneath Had their general meeting-place. The splendour of his birth and blood Was but the gloss of his own good. The flourish of his sober youth Was the pride of naked truth. Lived a fair, but manly grace; His mouth was Rhetoric's best mould, His tongue the touchstone of her gold; What word soe'er his breath kept warm, Was no word now but a charm: For all persuasive Graces thence Him while fresh and fragrant Time His smooth cheeks with a downy shade; Swept him off into his grave. Enough, now (if thou canst) pass on, For now (alas!) not in this stone (Passenger, whoe'er thou art) Is he entomb'd, but in thy heart. -:0: An Epitaph upon Doctor Brook. A Brook, whose stream so great, so good, Was loved, was honour'd as a flood: Here at length hath gladly found The Muses with their tears supply. -:0: An Epitaph upon Mr. Ashton, a Conformable Citizen. The modest front of this small floor, Believe me, Reader, can say more Than many a braver marble can, One whose conscience was a thing His prayers took their price and strength Not only in despite of Rome. He loved his Father; yet his zeal Tore not off his Mother's veil. To th' Church he did allow her dress, Peace, which he loved in life, did lend When Age and Death called for the score No surfeits were to reckon for. Death tore not-therefore-but sans strife What remains then but that thou Write these lines, Reader, in thy brow, And by his fair example's light So while these lines can but bequeath A life perhaps unto his death; His life still kept alive in thee. :0: To the Queen: AN APOLOGY FOR THE LENGTH OF THE FOLLOWING PANEGYRIC. When you are mistress of the song, Mighty queen, to think it long, Were treason 'gainst that majesty |