That wee are thought wits, when 'tis understood,
There that blest maid to die, who now should grieve?
10After thy sorrow, 'twere her losse to live;
And her faire vertues in anothers line,
Would faintly dawn, which are made Saints in thine.
Hadst thou beene shallower, and not writ so high,
Or left some new way for our pennes, or eye,
15To shed a funerall teare, perchance thy Tombe
Had not beene speechlesse, or our Muses dumbe;