Classic Poem

Thou find'st more honor in th' vntimely Graue
Deere Ouerbury , than a King can haue
With all Kings pow'r; for, they can giue no grace
Beyond the span of life: Poore spacelesse-space!
Then, blessed was thy death, how euer bannd
It might be deem'd by thee, for being ban'd:
Sith Death , by poison , did but reaue thy breath ;
But with That poyson , thou hast poyson'd Death .
So, from his hand his weapon thou did wrest:
And, for thy safety , sheath'd it in his Brest
Yet comes thine honor , though it reach thus hie.
Short of thy merit for loues-puritie ,
And for as much besides, as Wit and Art
Can Value giue to any Head or Heart .
Thou wast a Pythias to an Anti Damou ,
Who for thy true loue , prou'd to thee a Demon
Had he bene Damon in integritie .
A King (perhaps) had made a Trinitie
Of friends with you; for, your loue Angel-like
Had made him make that Body-politicke;
As whilom did a Keisar in like case:
But three can nere make one , if one be base ,
And two be deare , sith Dissimilitude
Dissolues the knot of Loues beatitude,
Fortune on thee , in him , did smile and lowre ;
Smile in his fortunes, in thy wisedomes powre:
But Iowr'd on thee, when he (false ladder ) rose
For thee to climbe, to both your overthrowes.
He rose and fell from thee , and thou by him
Didst rise and fall: but thou, in bane didst swim
Past Laethe , and in bloud and blame he tydes
(As far beyond, as shame , past shame , abides)
With winds of his owne sighes , without one teare
Of any ruthfull Eye , though nere so neere.
But sith nought stayd him to thee, but the aire
Of words , who would ascend by such a staire?
Thou being on his brest, through want of stay
For thy worths-weight, from thee he fell away:
But thou camst first to ground, and with the fall
Thy bowels brake, all pickl'd with thy gall:
Thy Ghost yet (if she knows what mortals do)
Must needs exult, and have compassion too,
To heare thy praises peald-out as they be:
And see such justice done , on earth , for thee
Yea, as thy Ghost had leaue in wrathfull moode
To surfet with thy foes delicious- blood ,
Which from the hie in place, still headlong, streams
Through thy late soueraigns dearst of Diadems,
To fresh the flowers thereof, and her so cloy,
That she, as sicke therewith, is green'd with ioy
So as thy shrill Vindictac's now do ring
With groanes about the Palace of the King
As if thy soule, in blisse, in some degree
Did suffer paine with sufferers for thee.
And if she (plagu'd) in life did hell endure,
Through their close hate who did thy death procure,
Tis openly reveng'd, so home, that all
The world may see thy worths weight in their fall
For as pure gold best knowne is by the TEST
In fire: so, that deere vertue of thy Brest ,
In flames of Loue , and fi'ry tryals tride,
Doth make thy Worth in greatnesse , far more wide
Than Time; for when, he (stretcht out) is laid forth
Thy glory shall entombe him in thy WORTH.