Scarce soe much time as to the prophet’s gourd.
Yet since swift flights of virtue have apt ends,
Like breath of angels, which a blessing sends,
And vanisheth withall, whilst fouler deeds
Expect a tedious harvest for bad seeds;
I blame not fame and nature if they gave,
Where they could give no more, their last, a grave.
And wisely doe thy greived freinds forbeare
Bubbles and alabaster boyes to reare
On thy religious dust: for men did know