 | Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow |  |
34
SONNET.
[I grieve to think, so often as I muse]
I grieve to think, so often as I muse,Musing on sweet and bitter argument,
How many souls posterity doth lose,
In that they leave behind no monument:
Souls, that have fed upon divinest thought,
Yet, lacking utt'rance of their music's store,
To us, that breathe hereafter, are as nought,
Or question'd but as names, that dwelt before:
Were it sad chance, that them of fame bereft,
Love, grief, or sickness, or resentful woe,
Or abstinence of virtue made a theft
Of that, which virtue to itself doth owe;
The cause unknown, their worth unwritten too,
Let the World weep, for they are pity's due!
| Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow | |