If, passenger, thou canst but read:
Stay, drop a tear for him that's dead,
Henry, the brave young Lord La-ware,
Minerva's and the muses' care!
What could their care do 'gainst the spite
Of a disease, that loved no light
Of honour, nor no air of good?
But crept like darkness through his blood?
Offended with the dazzling flame
Of virtue, got above his name?
No noble furniture of parts,
No love of action, and high arts,
No aim at glory, or in war,
Ambition to become a star,
Could stop the malice of this ill,
That spread his body o'er, to kill:
And only, his great soul envied,
Because it durst have noblier died.