What in their tempers teased us or distress'd,
Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest;
And much we grieve, no longer trial made,
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For that impatience which we then display'd;
Now to their love and worth of every kind
A soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind;
Virtues, neglected then, adored become,
And graces slighted blossom on the tomb.
'Tis well; but let not love nor grief believe