His Epitaph.[72]

Passenger, who e're thou art Stay a while, and let thy heart Take acquaintance of this stone, Before thou passest further on. This stone will tell thee, that beneath, Is entomb'd the crime of Death; The ripe endowments of whose mind Left his yeares so much behind, That numbring of his vertues' praise, Death lost the reckoning of his dayes; And believing what they told, Imagin'd him exceeding old. In him Perfection did set forth The strength of her united worth. Him his wisdome's pregnant growth Made so reverend, even in youth, That in the center of his brest (Sweet as is the phoenix' nest) Every reconciled Grace Had their generall meeting-place. In him Goodnesse joy'd to see Learning learne Humility. The splendor of his birth and blood Was but the glosse of his owne good. The flourish of his sober youth Was the pride of naked truth. In composure of his face, Liv'd a faire, but manly grace. His mouth was Rhetorick's best mold, His tongue the touchstone of her gold. What word so e're his breath kept warme, Was no word now but a charme: For all persuasive Graces thence Suck't their sweetest influence. His vertue that within had root, Could not chuse but shine without. And th' heart-bred lustre of his worth, At each corner peeping forth, Pointed him out in all his wayes, Circled round in his owne rayes: That to his sweetnesse, all men's eyes Were vow'd Love's flaming sacrifice. Him while fresh and fragrant Time Cherisht in his golden prime; E're Hebe's hand had overlaid His smooth cheekes with a downy shade; The rush of Death's unruly wave, Swept him off into his grave. Enough, now (if thou canst) passe on, For now (alas!) not in this stone (Passenger who e're thou art) Is he entomb'd, but in thy heart.