Thy liberal heart embalmed in grateful tears,
Young sighs, sweet sighs, sage sighs bewail thy fall.
ENVY, her sting; and SPITE, hath left her gall.
MALICE herself, a mourning garment wears.
That day their HANNIBAL died, our SCIPIO fell:
SCIPIO, CICERO, and PETRARCH of our time:
Whose virtues, wounded by my worthless rhyme,
Let angels speak; and heaven, thy praises tell.
Another of the same.
Silence augmenteth grief! writing increaseth rage!
Stald 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 RIGOUR'S tears abound,
And ENVY strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found;
