And never to the world beholden be,
So much as for an epitaph for thee.

I do not like the office; nor is't fit
Thou, who didst lend our age such sums of wit,
Should'st now re-borrow from her bankrupt mine
That ore to bury thee which first was thine;
Rather still leave us in thy debt, and know,
Exalted soul, more glory 'tis to owe
Thy memory what we can never pay,
Than with embased coin those rites defray.

Commit we then thee to thyself, nor blame Our drooping loves that thus to thine own fame Leave thee executor, since but thine own

No
pen could do thee justice, nor bays crown
Thy vast deserts; save that, we nothing can
Depute to be thy ashes guardian :

So, jewellers no art or metal trust

To form the diamond, but the diamond's dust.

AN ELEGY ON DR. DONNE.

H. K.

OUR Donne is dead! and, we may sighing say, We had that man where language chose to stay And shew her utmost power. I wou'd not praise That, and his great wit, which in our vain days Make others proud; but, as these serv'd to unlock That cabinet his mind, where such a stock Of knowledge was repos'd, that I lament Our just and general cause of discontent.

And, I rejoice I am not so severe, But as I write a line, to weep a tear For his decease: such sad extremities Can make such men as I write elegies.

And

And wonder not; for when so great a loss Falls on a nation, and they slight the cross, God hath raised prophets to awaken them From their dull lethargy: witness my pen, Not us'd to upbraid the world, though now it must Freely, and boldly, for the cause is just.

Dull age! oh, I wou'd spare thee, but thou'rt

worse:

Thou art not only dull, but hast a curse
Of black ingratitude: if not? couldst thou
Part with this matchless man, and make no vow
For thee and thine sucessively to pay,
Some sad remembrance to his dying day?

Did his youth scatter poetry, wherein

Lay loves philosophy? was every sin
Pictur'd in his sharp satyrs, made so foul
That some have fear'd sins shapes, and kept their
soul

Safer by reading verse! did he give days,

Past marble monuments to those whose praise
He wou'd perpetuate? did he (I fear

Envy will doubt,) these at his twentieth year?

But more matur'd; did his rich soul conceive, And, in harmonious holy numbers weave A crown of sacred* sonnets, fit t'adorn A dying martyr's brow: or, to be worn On the blest head of Mary Magdalen, After she wip'd Christs feet; but not, till then. Did he (fit for such penitents as she And he to use) leave us a litany,

Which all devout men love? and, doubtless shall As times grow better, grow more classical.

* La Corona.

Did he write hymns, for piety and wit,
Equal to those great grave Prudentius writ?
Spake he all languages? knew he all laws?
The grounds and use of physic; but, because
'Twas mercenary, wav'd it: went to see
That happy place of Christ's Nativity.

Did he return and preach him? preach him so
As since St. Paul none ever did! they know:
Those happy souls that heard him know this
truth.

Did he confirm thy ag'd? convert thy youth?
Did he these wonders! and is his dear loss
Mourn'd by so few? few for so great a cross.

But sure, the silent are ambitious all
To be close mourners at his funeral.
If not? in common pity, they forbear
By repetitions to renew our care:

Or knowing grief conceiv'd, and hid, consumes
Mans life insensibly (as poison fumes

Corrupt the brain) take silence for the way
T'inlarge the soul from these walls, mud, and clay,
Materials of this body: to remain

With him in heaven, where no promiscuous pain Lessens those joys we have: for, with him all Are satisfied, with joys essential.

Dwell on these joys my thoughts: oh, do not call

Grief back, by thinking on his funeral !

Forget he lov'd me: waste not my swift years
Which haste to David's seventy, fill'd with fears
And sorrows for his death: forget his parts,
They find a living grave in good mens hearts.
And, for my first is daily paid for sin :
Forget to pay my second sigh for him.
Forget his powerful preaching: and, forget

I am his convert. Oh my frailty! let
My flesh be no more heard: it will obtrude
This lethargy: so shou'd my gratitude,
My vows of gratitude shou'd so be broke;
Which, can no more be, than his virtues spoke
By any but himself: for which cause, I
Write no encomiums, but this elegy.
Which, as a free-will offering, I here give
Fame and the world: and, parting with it, grieve,
I want abilities, fit to set forth,

A monument, as matchless as his worth.

April 7. 1631.

Iz. Wa.