Classic Poem

Tis vayne to weepe; or in a riming spite
Abuse the Fates in some base Epithete.
Such griefe distills from every whining penne,
And proves those, which wee grieve, for to bee men,
Cause theyr memoriall smotherd in a verse
Lives in a Distick pind to th mourning Herse.
Or in a patcht upp dolefull Elegy
The two houres griefe of idle Poitry.
Ours was a Deity at least, or such a one
As amongst men composde of flesh & bone
Finding none like himselfe, in hast hee left us,
Viewd the world, only dyde, & so bereaft us:
Yet past not silent, but lett some tears fall,
As only mourning his owne funerall.
Just like a babling loud Alar me thats wound
Vpp for an houre, which come foorth w th a sound
Tells, the Time's past: then having struck his fill,
As if that rung his owne last knell, stands still.
Hee was not th'error of deficient nature
But was produc't compleat in limbs & feature:
Hee was no Heteroclite: twas Natures spight,
That hee departed, not her oversight.
Wee 'njoyde him not one Sunne: his life it was
Short as his litle selfe: who thus did passe
From one grave to another; as if h'had bin
In hast to tell above, what here h'had seene.
Hee livd not to his cradle; scarce to's death:
That was his first, that was his latest breath.
Others are borne, & speake, & goe, then fall:
His birth disolvd into his funerall.
Yet looseth hee no honour: every day
Some one or other goes the selfe same way.
Who seeing hee could not enjoy him here
Goes hence in hope to bee his subject there.
Hee knowes no change: but mongst the very hosts
Of purer Shadowes lives the Prince of Ghosts.