Classic Poem

Tis not to force more teares from your sad eye,
That we write thus; that were a Piety
Turn'd guilt and sinne; we only beg to come
And pay due tribute to his sacred tombe.
The muses did divide his Love with you,
And justly therefore may be mourners too.
Instead of Cypresse, they have brought fresh Baies
To crowne his Urne, and every dirge is Praise.
But since with him the learned tongues are gone,
Necessity here makes us use our owne.
Read, in his praise your owne, you cannot misse;
For he was but our Wonder, you were his.