When they bee gone, for to deface theire name:
Who while they liu’de, did feare you with theire lookes,
And for theire skill, you might not beare their bookes.”
Reusner’s lines, which have considerable beauty, may thus be rendered,—
“Since man is mortal, the dead it becomes us
Neither by word nor reproachful writing to mock at.
Theseus, mindful of mortal destiny, the bones of his friends
Both laves, and stores up in the tomb, and covers with earth.
’Tis the mark of a weak mind, to wage war with phantoms,
And after death to good men insult to offer.