Classic Poem

Such is th' unsteddy state of humane things,
And Death so certayne that their periods brings;
So frayle is youth, and Strength, so sure this Sleepe;
That much wee cannot wonder, though wee weepe.
Yet, since 'tis so, it will not misbecome
Either perhaps our sorrows, or his Tomb,
To breath a sigh, and drop a mourninge teare
Upon the cold face of his Sepulchre.
Well did his life deserve it, if to bee
A great example of integrity,
Honour, and truth, fidelity, and love,
In such perfection, as each had strove
T' out-doe Posterity, may deserve our care;
Or to his Funerall command a teare.
Faithfulle hee was, and just, and sweetly good
To whom ally'd in vertue, or in blood;
His breast (from other conversations chast)
Above the reach of giddy vice was plac't:
Then, had not death (that crops in 's savage speed
The fayrest flower, with the ranckest weede)
Thus made a beastly Conquest of his Prime,
And cut him off, before growne ripe for Tyme,
How bright an eav'ninge must this morne pursue;
Is to his life a contemplation due.
Proud Death t' arrest his thrivinge vertue thus!
Unhappy Fate! not to himselfe, but us
That soe have lost him; for no doubt but hee
Was fit for heav'n, as yeares could make him bee;
Age does but muster sin, and heape up woes
Against the last, and Gen'rall rendez-vous,
Whereas hee dy'de, full of obedient truth,
Wrapt in his spotlesse innocence of youth.
Farewell, Deare Uncle, may thy hop'd for bliss
To thee be reall as my Sorrow is;
(May they be nam'd together) since I doe
Nothinge more perfect than my sorrow know,
And, if thy sowle into mens minds have eyes,
It knows I truly weepe these Obsequies.