An Elegie Written upon the Death of Dr. Ravis, Bishop of London

When I past Paules, and travell’d in that walkeWhere all oure Brittaine-sinners sweare and talk;Ould Harry-ruffians, bankerupts, southsayers,And youth, whose cousenage is as ould as theirs;And then beheld the body of my lordTrodd under foote by vice that he abhorr’d;It wounded me the Landlord of all timesShould let long lives and leases to their crimes,And to his springing honour did affordScarce soe much time as to the prophet’s gourd.Yet since swift flights of virtue have apt ends,Like breath of angels, which a blessing sends,And vanisheth withall, whilst fouler deedsExpect a tedious harvest for bad seeds;I blame not fame and nature if they gave,Where they could give no more, their last, a grave.And wisely doe thy greived freinds forbeareBubbles and alabaster boyes to reareOn thy religious dust: for men did knowThy life, which such illusions cannot show:For thou hast trod among those happy onesWho trust not in their superscriptions,Their hired epitaphs, and perjured stone,Which oft belyes the soule when shee is gon;And durst committ thy body, as it lyes,To tongues of living men, nay unborne eyes.What profits thee a sheet of lead? What goodIf on thy coarse a marble quarry stood?Let those that feare their rising purchase vaults,And reare them statues to excuse their faults;As if, like birds that peck at painted grapes,Their judge knew not their persons from their shapes.Whilst thou assured, through thy easyer dustShall rise at first; they would not though they must.Nor needs the Chancellor boast, whose pyramisAbove the host and altar reared is;For though thy body fill a viler roome,Thou shalt not change deedes with him for his tombe.