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7
MODEST WORTH.
Upon the Death of Mr. R. Winterburn, B. D.
1652.
For flouds of tears this mournful fate does call;
'Tis Egypt where (they say) no showers fall.
Melt then your beams to tears, my thawing Eyes,
And Heav'n dissolves in Dews, when Phœbus dyes.
Alike they were; for he long time did sway
The Muse's Scepter, they did him obey.
Nay he excell'd in this—for he was free
From any thought of Daphne, but her Tree.
His Gold lay close in's Mine: His Helicon
Was full and deep; and so did silent run.
This made some slight him: Stars seem Motes i'th' Skies;
Height lessens Objects to imperfect Eyes.
Yet none more lowly thought, or spoke than he:
So rich mens cloaths persuade a Poverty.
Plain Scutcheons Heralds look upon as best;
And Maids lose credit that go lightly drest;
Di'monds in barren Mountains are inshrin'd;
And Popes their Sackcloth wear, with Velvet lin'd.
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