Palæmon’s[67] death succeeding struck me dumb,
My tears were all I offer’d at his tomb.
Thus th’ Eastern sage[68] wth wondrous patience bore
Thrice dismal news, but he could bear no more,
Did weep, fall down, and silently adore.
My trouble now swells o’er, and artless strays,
Where nature yields, and passion leads ye ways.
Thou man of peace! born in our publick rage,
Designed to correct ye giddy age:
Thy solid judgment did resist ye flame,