I dare not do thy memory that wrong,
Unto our larger griefs to give a tongue;
I’ll only sigh in earnest, and let fall
My solemn tears at thy great funeral;
For every eye that rains a show’r for thee,
Laments thy loss in a sad elegy.
Nor is it fit each humble Muse should have
Thy worth his subject, now th’ art laid in grave;
No, it’s a flight beyond the pitch of those,
Whose worthless pamphlets are not sense in prose.