Death hath disordered all, misplacing thee;
Whilst now thy herauld, in his line of heirs,
Blots out thy name, and fills the space with tears.
And thus hath conqu’ring Death, or Nature rather,
Made thee prepostrous ancient to thy father,
Who grieves th’ art so, and like a glorious light
Shines ore thy hearse.
He therefore that would write
And blaze thee throughly, may at once say all,
Here lies the anchor of our admiral.