The Epitaph, or Funeral Verse, of Dr. REDMAN upon the Death of MARTIN BUCER

Hence, O far hence let envy fly, Nor be revenge nor mock'ry nigh: The lying lips and faithless mind, Let here no rest or refuge find. These from the man, God's image take, And him more like the devil's make. But holy truth be present here, Thou virgin everlasting fair. And to the inquiring many shew, From whence proceeds this scene of woe. BUCER, who read the church before, BUCER, that light of learning is no more: As the sun gilds the world around, So he in learning's orb was found. The mourning schools his loss confess, But who can CAMBRIDGE'S grief express? High as the stars her sighs ascend, Lamenting thus her wonted friend.

No more shall we a master find, Like him so just, like him so kind: Whose exemplary life was fraught With all the virtues which he taught His rest so small, labour so great, Nature sunk down beneath the weight, And yielded to death's fatal power, Before his short appointed hour But stop, my muse, thy labour's vain, Thy lines can't half his praise contain: Then farewel, BUCER, thy remains An humble sepulchre retains, Till the Great Judge of all shall come, And pass his universal doom: Then he thy body will restore, More glorious than it was before. Till when thy soul amongst the blest remains, There happily thou lives, there happily thou reigns.