Classic Poem

Dry up your teares, there's ennow shed by you,
And we must pay our shares of sorrow too.
It is no private losse: when such men fall
The world's concern'd, and grief is generall
But though of our misfortune we complain,
To him it is injurious and Vaine.
For since we know his rich integrity,
His reall sweetness, and full harmony;
How free his heart and house were to his friends,
Whom he oblieg'd without design or ends;
How universall was his courtesy,
How cleare a Soule, how even, and how high;
How much he scorn'd disguise and meaner arts,
But with a native honour conquer'd hearts;
We must conclude he was a treasure lent,
Soon weary of this sordid tenement.
The age and World deserv'd him not, and he
Was kindly snatch'd from future misery
We can scarce say hee's dead, but gon to rest,
And left a Monument in every Brest.
For you to grieve then in this sad excess,
Is not to speak your Love, but make it less
A noble soule no friendship will admit,
But what's eternall and divine as it
The soule at first is hid in flesh we know,
And all it's weaknesses must undergo,
Till by degrees it does shine forth at length,
And gathers Beauty, Purity, and Strength:
But never doth this rich immortall Ray
Put on full splendour till it put off clay.
So infant love is in the worthyest brest
By sence and passion fetter'd and opprest;
But by degrees it grows still more refin'd,
And scorning cloggs, onely concerns the mind.
Now as the Soule you lov'd here is set free
From its materiall grosse captivity;
Your Love should follow him, now he is gone,
And quitting passion put perfection on.
Such love as this will its own good deny,
If its deare object have felicity;
And since we cannot his great losse reprieve,
Let's not loose you in whom he still does live:
For while you are by grief secluded thus,
It doth appeare your funerall to us.