Upon the Death of our late famous English Orator and Poet Jhon Cleveland

Is Cleveland dead? Could noe Rich Fancies Spell
Work a Reprive, and stop the Passing-Bell:
The Fates Decree noe Mortall can withstand.
Nor may our Threed skape Atroposes hand:
Riches and Honors, Parentage, and Berth, —
Can naught avayle, Earth must again to Earth:
But the Sublimer Raptures Crownd This One,
How could They fall asleep? b'Entoombd in Ston?
When All that Knew Him, bowldly may averr,
None e'er wrot Like, soe He was Singuler:
And Jhonson, Spencer, Jeffery, and All
Poets, to Him, seemd but Apocriphall,
His the True Text Invention desird,
To make Apollo, and the Nine Admir'd:
He Tund Their Numbers, to a Newer strain
Than e're was heard on the Arcadian plain,
Prickt Noats of wonder, that Fames Trumpet Shrill,
Might carry Them, above Parnassus Hill:
(Beyond, or This, or T'other Grove belowe,
Wher Venus Myrtles, Phebus Lawrells growe)
Up to the Spheres, as Ditties, only may
Sute, with the Ayres, Orion Ther doth play:
Or soe Seraphick, that the Spheres, and Those,
One Ditty, Ayre, and Harmony compose:
Soe did He-leav-Land, Water, Ayre, and Fier
(Wherof Compos'd), t'Enrich a Nobler Quier:
Whilst we, one letter, from his name obtain
To Skoar our Loss an Hundred through His Gain.