The Beautie, and the Life,
Of Lifes, and Beauties fairest Paragon,
(O Teares! O Griefe!) hang at a feeble Thread,
To which pale Atropos had set her Knife,
The Soule with many a Grone
Had left each outward Part,
And now did take his last Leave of the Heart,
Nought else did want, save Death, even to be dead:
When the afflicting Band about her Bed
(Seeing so faire him come in Lips, Cheekes, Eyes)
Cried, ah! and can Death enter Paradise?