 | Poems |  |
77
On the death of my much honourd Uncle Mr. G. Sandys.
Pardon (great Soul) if duty grounded on
Bloud and affections firm devotion
Force my weak muse to sacriledge, and by
Short-payment rob thy sacred memory.
To be thy wits Executor, though I
No title have, yet a small Legacy
Fitting my small reception didst thou leave,
Which from thy learned works I did receive;
I should then prove unthankfull to deny
Some spices to embalm that memory,
Whose Soul and better part thy lines alone
Establish in Eternity's bright throne:
Our humble art the body of thy fame
Onely to Memphian mummie tries to frame;
Which though a swarthy drynesse it puts on
Is raised yet above corruption.
Bloud and affections firm devotion
Force my weak muse to sacriledge, and by
Short-payment rob thy sacred memory.
To be thy wits Executor, though I
No title have, yet a small Legacy
Fitting my small reception didst thou leave,
Which from thy learned works I did receive;
I should then prove unthankfull to deny
Some spices to embalm that memory,
Whose Soul and better part thy lines alone
Establish in Eternity's bright throne:
Our humble art the body of thy fame
Onely to Memphian mummie tries to frame;
Which though a swarthy drynesse it puts on
Is raised yet above corruption.
A Tomb of rarest art, Magnificent
As 'ere the East did to thy eyes present,
Erected by great Falklands learned hands
To thee alive, in his eloqiums stands.
Thy body we are onely then t'interre,
And to those matchlesse Epitaphs refer
The hasty passenger that cannot stay
To heare thy larger Muse her worth display.
As 'ere the East did to thy eyes present,
Erected by great Falklands learned hands
To thee alive, in his eloqiums stands.
Thy body we are onely then t'interre,
And to those matchlesse Epitaphs refer
The hasty passenger that cannot stay
To heare thy larger Muse her worth display.
78
Unlesse unto the Croud about the Hearse
(Those busy Sons of sense) I shall rehearse
What worth in thy material part did dwell,
And at the funerall thy Scutcheons spell;
Declare the extraction of thy noble line,
What graces from all parts of thee did shine,
That age thy sense did not at seventy cloud,
And thee a youth all then but death allow'd:
As for thy Soul, if any do enquire,
Tis making Anthems in the heavenly Quire.
(Those busy Sons of sense) I shall rehearse
What worth in thy material part did dwell,
And at the funerall thy Scutcheons spell;
Declare the extraction of thy noble line,
What graces from all parts of thee did shine,
That age thy sense did not at seventy cloud,
And thee a youth all then but death allow'd:
As for thy Soul, if any do enquire,
Tis making Anthems in the heavenly Quire.
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