Volume 1 — VPON THE DEATH OF A GENTLEMAN.[68]

Faithlesse and fond Mortality!1 Who will ever credit thee? Fond, and faithlesse thing! that thus, In our best hopes beguilest us. What a reckoning hast thou made,5 Of the hopes in him we laid! For life by volumes lengthenèd, A line or two to speake him dead. For the laurell in his verse, crape The sullen cypresse o're his herse10 For soe many hopèd yeares Of fruit, soe many fruitles teares: For a silver-crownèd head A durty pillow in Death's bed. For so deare, so deep a trust,15 Sad requitall, thus much dust! Now though the blow that snatch him hence, Stopt the mouth of Eloquence: Though shee be dumbe e're since his death, Not us'd to speake but in his breath;20 Leaving his death vngarnishèd Therefore, because hee is dead Yet if at least shee not denyes, The sad language of our eyes, Wee are contented: for then this25 Language none more fluent is. Nothing speakes our griefe so well As to speak nothing. Come then tell Thy mind in teares who e're thou be, That ow'st a name to misery.30 Eyes are vocall, teares have tongues, And there be words not made with lungs; Sententious showres: O let them fall, Their cadence is rhetoricall. Here's a theame will drinke th' expence,35 Of all thy watry eloquence. Weepe then! onely be exprest Thus much, 'he's dead:' and weep the rest.