ve to thy Monument,
The prudent Councell may invent fresh wayes
To get new contribution to thy prayse,
And reare it high, and equall to thy Wit
Which must give life and Monument to it.
So when late_ ESSEX _dy'd, the Publicke face
Wore sorrow in't, and to add mournefull Grace
To the sad pomp of his lamented fall,
The Common wealth served at his Funerall
And by a Solemne Order built his Hearse.
But not like thine, built by thy selfe, in Verse,
Where thy advanced Image safely stands
Above the reach of Sacrilegious hands.
Base hands how impotently you disclose
Your rage 'gainst_ Camdens _learned ashes, whose
Defaced Statua and Martyrd booke,
Like an Antiquitie and Fragment looke._
Nonnulla desunt's _legibly appeare,
So truly now_ Camdens Remaines _lye there.
Vaine Malice! how he mocks thy rage, while breath
Of fame shall speake his great_ Elizabeth!
_'Gainst time and thee he well provided hath,_
Brittannia _is the Tombe and Epitaph.
Thus Princes honours: but Witt only gives
A name which to succeeding ages lives.
Singly we now consult our selves and fame,
Ambitious to twist ours with thy great name.
Hence we thus bold to praise. For as a Vine
With subtle wreath, and close embrace doth twine
A friendly Elme, by whose tall trunke it shoots
And gathers growth and moysture from its roots;
About its armes the thankfull clusters cling
Like Bracelets, and with purple ammelling
The blew-cheek'd grape stuck in its vernant haire
Hangs like rich Jewells in a beauteous eare.
So grow our Prayses by thy Witt; we doe
Borrow support and strength and lend but show._
_And but thy Male wit like the youthfull Sun
Strongly begets upon our passion.
Making our sorrow teeme with Elegie,
Thou yet unwep'd, and yet unprais'd might'st be.
But th' are imperfect births; and such are all
Produc'd by causes not univocall,
The scapes of Nature, Passives being unfit,
And hence our verse speakes only Mother wit.
Oh for a fit o'th Father! for a Spirit
That might but parcell of thy worth inherit;
For but a sparke of that diviner fire
Which thy full breast did animate and inspire;
That Soules could be divided, thou traduce
But a small particle of thine to us!
Of thine; which we admir'd when thou didst sit
But as a joynt-Commissioner in Wit;
When it had plummets hung on to suppresse
It's too luxuriant growing mightinesse:
Till as that tr