ELEGY ON SHAKESPEARE RENOWNED Spenser lie a thought more nigh To lodge all four in one bed make a shift A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre, That unto us and others it may be 1633. William Basse. 10 ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER MORTALITY, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heaps of stones; Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands, That the earth did e'er suck in Here the bones of birth have cried "Though gods they were, as men they died!" Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings: Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 1653. Francis Beaumont. EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE UNDERNEATH this sable hearse Marble piles let no man raise 10 1641. Some kind woman, born as she, Shall turn statue, and become Both her mourner and her tomb. 12 Ben. Jonson. 1616. ON ELIZABETH L. H. WOULDST thou hear what Man can say Underneath this stone doth lie The other, let it sleep with death: Fitter, where it died, to tell, Than that it lived at all. Farewell! Ben. Jonson. 10 UPON THE DEATH OF SIR ALBERT MORTON'S WIFE He first deceased; she for a little tried To live without him, liked it not, and died. 1627. Sir Henry Wotton 1640. EPITAPH On the Lady Mary Villiers THE Lady Mary Villiers lies Known unto thee, shed a tear; Thomas Carew. A NAMELESS EPITAPH Ask not my name, O friend! That Being only, which hath known each man From the beginning, can Remember each unto the end. 1867. Matthew Arnold V ON SIR PHILIP SIDNEY SILENCE augmenteth grief, writing increaseth rage, Stal'd are my thoughts, which loved and lost, the wonder of our age, Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now, Enraged I write I know not what: dead quick, I know not how. Hard-hearted minds relent, and Rigor's tears abound, And Envy strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found; Knowledge his light hath lost, Valor hath slain her knight: Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight. Place pensive wailes his fall, whose presence was her pride, Time crieth out, my ebb is come, his life was my spring-tide; 8 |