The dead, who needs no monumentall vaults,
With his pale ashes to intombe his faults.
Whose sins beget no libels, whom the poore
For benefit; for worth, the rich adore.
Who liv'd a solitary Phœnix free
From the commerce with mischiefe, joy'd to be
Still gazing heaven-ward, where his thoughts did move,
Fed with the sacred fire of zealous love.
Alone he flourisht, 'till the fatall houre
Did summon him, when gathering from each flowre