Classic Poem

Here, or not many feet from hence
The virtue lies call'd Patience.
Sickness and Death did do her honour
By loosing paine and feare upon her.
Tis true they forst her to a grave,
That's all the triumph that they have, —
A silly one; retreat o'er night
Proves conquest in a morning fight.
She will rise up against them both;
All sleep, believe it, is not sloth.
And thou that read'st her elegie,
Take something of her historie:
She had one husband and one sonne;
Ask who they were, and thou hast done.