Vpon the Death of a Gentleman.-Richard Crawshaw

  • FAithlesse and fond Mortality,
  • Who will ever credit thee?
  • Fond and faithlesse thing! that thus,
  • In our best hopes beguilest us.
  • What a reckoning hast thou made,
  • Of the hopes in him we laid?
  • For Life by volumes lengthened,
  • A Line or two, to speake him dead.
  • For the Laurell in his verse,
  • The sullen Cypresse o're his Herse.
  • For a silver-crowned Head,
  • A durty pillow in Death's Bed.
  • For so deare, so deep a trust,
  • Sad requitall, thus much dust!
  • Now though the blow that snatcht 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,
  • Yet if at least shee not denyes,
  • The sad language of our eyes,
  • Wee are contented: for then this
  • Language none more fluent is.
  • Nothing speakes our Griefe so well
  • As to speake Nothing, Come then tell
  • Thy mind in Teares who e're Thou be,
  • That ow'st a Name to misery.
  • Eyes are vocall, Teares have Tongues,
  • And there be words not made with lungs;
  • Sententious showers, ô let them fall,
  • Their cadence is Rhetoricall.
  • Here's a Theame will drinke th'expence,
  • Of all thy watry Eloquence,
  • Weepe then, onely be exprest
  • Thus much, Hee's Dead, and weepe the rest.

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