We weepe an age, and more than th' Achorit, have
Our very thoughts confin'd within a Grave.
Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flame
And thou Castara who had hadst a name,
But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verse
Is lost to you, and onely on Talbots herse
Sadly attends. And till times fatall hand
Ruines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand.
There to thy selfe, deare Talbot, Ile repeate
Thy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how great