XVI. An Elegie on the death of his Worshipfull friend, Master Thomas Purcell of
Dunhill, Esquire, in Salop.
Weepe sad Vrania, weepe
Weepe sad Vrania, weepe, For thou hast
lost thy deare, And now must fixe
thy sacred loue elsewhere,
For he that lately made thy numbers eu'n, for he that lately made thy
numbers eu'n, Forsaking earth, is
now possest, possest of heau'n, is now possest of heauen,
Where he though dead still liues with God on hye,
He found, he found, we lost, we lost, He sings, he sings, we
sigh and dye.
