 | Divine poems
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Eleg. 12.
Molest me not, full sighes and flowing teares,
You stormes & showres of nature: stop your eares,
Fond flesh and bloud, against the strong temptation
Of sullen griefe, and sense-bereaving passion:
Cease to lament; Let not thy slow pac'd numbers
Disturbe his rest, that so, so sweetly slumbers;
The child of virtue is asleepe, not dead;
He dies, alone, whom death hath conquered:
Why should we shed a teare for him? or why
Lament we, whom we rather should envie?
He lives; he lives a life, shall never tast
A change, so long as Crownes of glory last.
| Divine poems
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