The marble will but wanton with thy woe.
Death is the Sea, and we like Rivers flow
To lose our selves in the insatiate Maine,
Whence Rivers may, she[20] ne're returne againe.
Nor grieve this Christall streame so soone did fall
Into the Ocean; since she perfum'd all
The banks she past, so that each neighbour field
Did sweete flowers cherish by her watring, yeeld.
Which now adorne her Hearse. The violet there
On her pale cheeke doth the sad livery weare,