Hadst thou, like other Sirs and Knights of worth,
Sickned and dyde, been stretcht-out and laid-forth,
After thy farewell Sermon taken earth,
And left no deed to praise thee but thy birth,—
Then, Ouerbury , by a passe of theirs,
Thou might'st haue tyded hence in two howers teares.
Then had we worne thy sprigs of memory
No longer then thy friends did Rosemary,
Or then the doale was eating for thy sake,
And thou hadst sunke in thy owne wine and cake.
But since it was so ordered and thought fit
By some who knew thy truth and fear'd thy wit,
Thou shouldst be poysoned, Death hath done thee grace,
Ranckt thee aboue the region of thy place.
For none heares poyson nam'd but makes replie,
‘What Prince was that? what States-man so did die?’
In this thou hast outdyde an Elegie,
Which were too narrow for posteritie,
And thy strong poyson, which did seeme to kill,
Working afresh in some Historians quill,
Shall now preserue thee longer, ere thou rot,
Than could a Poem mixt with Antidot.
Nor needest thou trust a Herrald with thy name,
That art the voice of Iustice and of Fame,
Whilst sinne, (detesting her owne conscience), striues
To pay the vse and interest of lives.
Enough of ryme; and might it please the law,
Enough of bloud: for, naming liues, I saw
He that writes more of thee must write of more;
Which I affect not, but referre men ore
To Tyburne, by whose Art they may define
What life of man is worth, in valewing thine.