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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408519" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Upon the death of my ever desired friend Doctor Donne Dean of Pauls</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">To have liv'd eminent in a degreee <br>Beyond our lofty'st flights, that is like thee; <br>Or t'have had too much merit is not safe; <br>For such excesses find no Epitaph. <br>At common graves we have Poetick eyes <br>Can melt themselves in easie Elegies; <br>Each quill can drop his tributary verse, <br>And pin it with the Hatchments, to the Herse: <br>But at thine, Poem or inscription <br>(Rich Soul of wit and language); we have none; <br>Indeed a silence does that Tomb befit <br>Where is no Herald left to blazon it. <br>Widdow'd invention justly doth forbear <br>To come abroad knowing thou art not here, <br>Late her great Patron; whose prerogative <br>Maintain'd and cloth'd her so, as none alive <br>Must now presume to keep her at thy rate, <br>Though he the Indies for her dowre estate: <br>Or else that awful fire, which once did burn <br>In thy clear brain, now fall'n into thy Urn. <br>Lives there to fright rude Empericks from thence, <br>Which might profane thee by their ignorance: <br>Who ever writes of thee, and in a style <br>Unworthy such a Theme, does but revile <br>Thy precious dust, and wake a learned spirit <br>Which may revenge his rapes upon thy merit. <br>For all a low-pitcht fancie can devise, <br>Will prove at best but hallow'd injuries. <br>Thou, like the dying Swan, didst lately sing <br>Thy mournful Dirge in audience of the King; <br>When pale looks, and faint accents of thy breath, <br>Presented so to life that piece of death, <br>That it was fear'd and prophesi'd by all <br>Thou thither cam'st to preach thy Funerall. <br>O! hadst thou in an Elegiack knell <br>Rung out unto the world thine own farewell; <br>And in thy high victorious numbers beat <br>The solemn measure of thy griev'd retreat: <br>Thou might'st the Poets service now have mist, <br>As well as then thou didst prevent the Priest: <br>And never to the world beholden be, <br>So much as for an Epitaph for thee. <br>I do not like the office. Nor is't fit <br>Thou, who didst lend our age such summes of wit, <br>Should'st now reborrow from her Bankrupt Mine <br>That Ore to bury thee, which once was thine. <br>Rather still leave us in thy debt; and know <br>(Exalted Soul!) More glory 'tis to ow <br>Unto thy Herse what we can never pay, <br>Then with embased coin those Rites defray. <br>Commit we then Thee to Thy Self: nor blame <br>Our drooping loves, which thus to thine own fame <br>Leave Thee Executour: since but thy own <br>No pen could do Thee Justice, nor Bayes crown <br>Thy vast desert; save that we nothing can <br>Depute to be thy ashes Guardian. <br>So Jewellers no Art or Metal trust <br>To form the Diamond, but the Diamonds dust.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+King">Henry King</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408519" data-title="Upon the death of my ever desired friend Doctor Donne Dean of Pauls de Henry King" data-description="To have liv'd eminent in a degreee 
Beyond our lofty'st flights, that is like thee; 
Or t'have had too much merit is not safe; 
For such excesses find no Epitaph. 
At common graves we have Poetick eyes 
Can melt themselves in easie Elegies; 
Each ..."></div>
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