Classic Poem

Noe; not a quatch, sad Poets; doubt you,
There's not greife enough without you?
Or that it will asswage ill newes
To say, Shee's dead, that was your Muse ?
Ioine not with Death to make these Times
More grievous, with most Grievous Rimes.
And if't be possible, Deare Eyes,
The famous Universityes,
If both your Eyes bee Matches, Sleepe;
Or, if you will be Loyall, weepe:
For-beare the press: there's none will looke
Before the Mart for a new booke.
Why should you tell the world what witts
Grow at New-parkes , or Campus-pitts ?
Or what conceipts Youth stumble on,
Taking the ayre towards Trumpington ?
Nor you graue Tutours , who doe temper
Your Long and Short with Que and Semper ;
O doe not, when your owne are done,
Make for my Ladyes eldest Sonne
Verses, which he will turne to Prose,
When he shall read what you compose;
Nor, for an Epithite that failes,
Bite of your unpoiticke Nailes.
Uniust: why should you in these vaines,
Punish your Fingers for your Braines ?
Know henceforth, that griefes vitall part
Consists in Nature, not in Art:
And Verses that are Studied ,
Mourne for themselves , not for the dead .
Heark, the Queenes Epitaph shall bee,
Noe other then her Pedigree:
For lines in Bloud cutt out are stronger
Then lines in Marble, and last longer.
And such a verse shall never fade,
That is Begotten , and not made .
Her Father, Brother, Husband, Kinges;
Royall relations: from her springes
A Prince and Princesse; and from those
Faire certaintyes, and rich hope growes.
Here's Poetry shall be secure,
While Britaine , Denmarke , Rheine endure:
Enough on Earth; what purchase higher,
Saue Heaven, to perfect her desire?
And as a straying Starr intic't,
And governd those wise-men to Christ :
Ev'n soe a Herauld- Starr this yeare
Did Beckon to Her to appeare:
A Starr which did not to our Nation
Portend her Death , but her Translation :
For when such Harbingers are seene,
God crownes a Saint , not kills a Queene .