Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens willow branches bear;
Say, I die true.
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth.
FRANCIS BEAUMONT
1586–1616
ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY
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;
Where from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.’
Here’s an acre sown indeed
With the richest royallest seed
That the earth did e’er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried,
‘Though gods they were, as men they died!’
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:
Here’s a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
SIR FRANCIS KYNASTON
1587–1642
TO CYNTHIA, ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY
Do not conceal those radiant eyes,
The starlight of serenest skies;
Lest, wanting of their heavenly light,
They turn to chaos’ endless night!
Do not conceal those tresses fair,
The silken snares of thy curled hair
Lest, finding neither gold nor ore,
The curious silk-worm work no more.
Do not conceal those breasts of thine,
More snow-white than the Apennine;
Lest, if there be like cold and frost,
The lily be for ever lost.