Verses fraile records are to keep a name,
Or raise from dust men to a life of fame,
The sport and spoyle of ignorance; but far
More fraile the frames of touch and marble are,
Which envy, avarice, time e're long confound,
Or mis-devotion equalls with the ground.
Vertue alone doth last, frees man from death,
And, though despis'd and scorned here beneath,
Stands grav'n in angels' diamantine roles,
And blazed in the courts above the poles.
Thou wast faire vertues' temple; they did dwell
And live ador'd in thee; nought did excell
But what thou either didst possesse or love,
The graces' darling, and the maids' of Jove;
Courted by fame for bounties which the heaven
Gave thee in great, which if in parcels given
To many, such we happy sure might call;
How happy then wast thou who enjoyedst them all!
A whiter soule, ne're body did invest,
And now, sequestred, cannot be but blest,
Inrob'd in glory, 'midst those hierarchies
Of that immortall people of the skies,
Bright saints and angels, there from cares made free,
Nought doth becloud thy soveraign good from thee,
Thou smil'st at earth's confusions and jars,
And how for Centaures children we wage wars:
Like honey flies, whose rage whole swarmes consumes,
Till dust thrown on them makes them vaile their plumes.
Thy friends to thee a monument would raise,
And limne thy vertues, but dull griefe thy praise
Breakes in the entrance, and our taske proves vaine;
What duty writes, that woe blots out againe:
Yet love a pyramid of sighs thee reares,
And doth embaulme thee with fare-wells and teares.