University of Virginia Library

To the Memory of his Ingenious friend, Master Thomas Beedom, and on these his Poems.

Ther 's no just reason Friend that I should write,
Vnlesse I could in swelling sighes indite,
My pregnant griefe, till every line appeares,
A volume of my sorrow writ in teares.
Each sillable, each accent should afford,
Plenteous expression, as the fullest word,
Of ample and unforc'd laments, till all,
I write attend upon thy Funerall,
As Epicedes, till every accent be
An Epitaph, each word an Elegie.
And wer't not for the life of this thy Booke,
(Which gives me hopes, all life has not forsooke.
Thy much lov'd Memory) I like thee should grow,
Ashes, and never henceforth strive to know,
Lifes painted glories, but to injoy thee come,
With eager hast into Elysium.
But this faire Off-spring of thy fancy which,
Is great in judgement, in Invention rich,
Makes me behold thee glorious, and I view,
By intellectuall eyes in it, thy true
Unstained Idea, from her spicie pile,
The new borne Phenix rises to beguile,
The amazed spectators, whose admiring frame,
The old ones figure, and beleeve't the same.
This difference 'twixt thy Booke, and thee must bee,
Thou di'dst with it, and now it lives for thee.