Gain’d this remembrance at his master’s cost.
O! read these lines again, you seldom find
A servant faithful, and his master kind.
Short-hand he wrote, his flower in prime did fade,
And hasty death short hand of him hath made.
Well couth he numbers, and well measur’d land,
Thus doth he now that ground whereon we stand,
Whereon he lies so geometrical,
Art maketh some, but thus will Nature all.
Ob. Dec. 28. 1621. Ætat. 29.