Wee lose what all friends lov'd, him; he gaines now
But life by death, which worst foes would allow,
If hee could have foes, in whose practise grew
20All vertues, whose names subtile Schoolmen knew.
What ease, can hope that wee shall see'him, beget,
When wee must die first, and cannot dye yet?
His children are his pictures, Oh they bee
Pictures of him dead, senselesse, cold as he.
25Here needs no marble Tombe, since hee is gone,
He, and about him, his, are turn'd to stone.