His Epitaph

Passenger, who e're thou artStay a while, and let thy heartTake acquaintance of this stone,Before thou passest further on.This stone will tell thee, that beneath,Is entomb'd the crime of Death;The ripe endowments of whose mindLeft his yeares so much behind,That numbring of his vertues' praise,Death lost the reckoning of his dayes;And believing what they told,Imagin'd him exceeding old.In him Perfection did set forthThe strength of her united worth.Him his wisdome's pregnant growthMade so reverend, even in youth,That in the center of his brest(Sweet as is the phoenix' nest)Every reconciled GraceHad their generall meeting-place.In him Goodnesse joy'd to seeLearning learne Humility.The splendor of his birth and bloodWas but the glosse of his owne good.The flourish of his sober youthWas the pride of naked truth.In composure of his face,Liv'd a faire, but manly grace.His mouth was Rhetorick's best mold,His tongue the touchstone of her gold.What word so e're his breath kept warme,Was no word now but a charme:For all persuasive Graces thenceSuck't their sweetest influence.His vertue that within had root,Could not chuse but shine without.And th' heart-bred lustre of his worth,At each corner peeping forth,Pointed him out in all his wayes,Circled round in his owne rayes:That to his sweetnesse, all men's eyesWere vow'd Love's flaming sacrifice.Him while fresh and fragrant TimeCherisht in his golden prime;E're Hebe's hand had overlaidHis smooth cheekes with a downy shade;The rush of Death's unruly wave,Swept him off into his grave.Enough, now (if thou canst) passe on,For now (alas!) not in this stone(Passenger who e're thou art)Is he entomb'd, but in thy heart.