Time's scythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade,
Nor thee this subject of our sorrow made.
Amongst those many votaries who come
To offer up their garlands at thy tomb;
Whilst some more lofty pens, in their bright verse
10(Like glorious tapers flaming on thy hearse),
Shall light the dull and thankless world to see,
How great a maim it suffers, wanting thee;
Let not thy learned shadow scorn, that I
Pay meaner rites unto thy memory;