Upon his flourishing estate,
Turned to soft pity of his death,
Now pays his hearse; but that cheap breath
Shall not blow here, nor th’ impure brine
Puddle the streams that bathe this shrine.
These are the pious obsequies
Dropped from his chaste wife’s pregnant eyes,
In frequent showers, and were alone
By her congealing sighs made stone,
On which the carver did bestow