Another

If ever Pitty were acquaintedWith sterne Death; if e're he fainted,Or forgot the cruell vigourOf an adamantine rigour;Here, or no where, hee'd have showne it.For hee, whose pretious memoryBathes in teares of every eye;Hee, to whom our Sorrow bringsAll the streames of all her springs;Was so rich in grace, and nature,In all the gifts that blesse a creature;The fresh hopes of his lovely youthFlourish't in so faire a growth;So sweet the temple was, that shrin'dThe sacred sweetnesse of his mind;That could the Fates know to relent,Could they know what mercy meant,Or had ever learnt to beareThe soft tincture of a teare;Teares would now have flow'd so deepe,As might have taught Griefe how to weepe.Now all their steely operationWould quite have lost the cruell fashion.Sicknesse would have gladly beenSick himselfe to have sav'd him;And his feaver wish'd to prove,Burning onely in his love.Him when Wrath it selfe had seen,Wrath it selfe had lost his spleen.Grim Destruction here amaz'd,In stead of striking, would have gaz'd.Even the iron-pointed pen,That notes the tragick doomes of men,Wet with teares, 'still'd from the eyesOf the flinty Destinies,Would have learn't a softer style,And have been asham'd to spoyleHis live's sweet story, by the hastOf a cruell stop, ill plac't.In the darke volume of our fate,Whence each lease of life hath date,Where in sad particularsThe totall summe of man appeares,And the short clause of mortall breath,Bound in the period of Death:In all the booke if any whereSuch a tearme as this, 'Spare here,'Could been found, 'twould have been read,Writ in white letters o're his head:Or close unto his name annext,The faire glosse of a fairer text.In briefe, if any one were freeHee was that one, and onely hee.But he, alas! even hee is dead,And our hope's faire harvest spreadIn the dust. Pitty, now spendAll the teares that Griefe can lend.Sad Mortality may hideIn his ashes all her pride;With this inscription o're his head,'All hope of never dying here is dead.'