Classic Poem

This marble needes no teares, let them be powr'd
For such whom earth's dull bowelles haue emboured
In child-head or in youth, and lefte to liue
By some sad chance fierce planets did contriue.
Eight lustres, twice full reckened, did make thee
All this life's happiness to know; and wee
Who saw thee in thy winter (as men flowres
Shrunke in their stemmes, or Ilium's faire towres,
Hidde in their rubbidge), could not but admire,
The casket spoyled, the jewel so intiere;
For, neither judgment, memorye, nor sence
In thee was blasted, till all fled from hence
To thy great Maker; earth unto earth must,
Man in his best estate is but best dust.
Now euen though buryed, yet thou canst not dye,
But happye liuest in thy faire progenie
To out-date tyme, and neuer passe away.
Till angelles raise thee from thy bed of claye,
And blist againe with these heere lou'd thou meet,
Rest in Fame's temple and this winding sheet:
Content thou liu'd heere, happye though not great,
And dyed with the kingdome and the state.