My Hopes did waine, and, I began to sing
A Mournfull-song, not easie to forget;
Because, I beare the burthen of it, yet.
Nor was I silent (though my Epicede
Appear'd not, for the publike eye to reade)
But, griev'd in private, as one wanting Art,
To give, the Life of praise, to his desart:
Which, if I could have equall'd with his Name,
His Death had gain'd my Verse, a living-Fame.
And, why expresse I this? except it give