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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=539476" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On The Death Of Sir Thomas Lea</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">You that affright with lamentable notes<br>The servants from their beef, whose hungry throats<br>Vex the grume porter's surly conscience:<br>That blesse the mint for coyning lesse than pence:<br>You whose unknown and meanly payd desarts<br>Begge silently within, and knocke at hearts:<br>You whose commanding worth makes men beleeve<br>That you a kindnesse give when you receave:<br>All sorts of them that want, your tears now lend:<br>A House-keeper, a Patron, and a Friend<br>Is lodged in clay. The man whose table fedde<br>So many while he lived, since hee is dead,<br>Himselfe is turn'd to food: whose chimney burn'd<br>So freely then, is now to ashes turn'd.<br>The man which life unto the Muses gave<br>Seeks life of them, a lasting Epitaph:<br>And hee from whose esteeme all vertues found<br>A just reward, now prostrate in the ground,<br>(Like some huge ancient oake, that ere it fell,<br>Could not be measur'd by the rule so well)<br>Desires a faythfull comment on his dayes,<br>Such as shall neither lye to wrong or prayse:<br>But oh! what Muse is halfe so pure, so strong,<br>What marble sheets can keepe his name so long<br>As onely hee hath lived? then who can tell<br>A perfect story of his living well?<br>The noble fire that spur'd and whetted on<br>His bravely vertuous resolution<br>Could not so soone be quencht as weaker soules<br>Whose feebler sparke an ach or thought controuls.<br>His life burnt to the snuffe; a snuffe that needs<br>No socket to conceale the stench, but feeds<br>Our sence like costly fumes: his manly breath<br>Felt no disease but age; and call'd for Death<br>Before it durst intrude, or thought to try<br>That strength of limbs, that soules integrity.<br>Looke on his silver hayres, his graceful browe,<br>And Gravity itselfe might Lea avowe<br>Her father: Time, his schoolmate. Fifty years<br>Once wedlocke he embrac't: a date that bears<br>Fayre scope, if Soule and Body chance to bee<br>So long a couple as his wife and hee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But number you his deeds, they so outpasse<br>The largest size of any mortal glasse,<br>That though hee liv'd a thousand, some would crye<br>Alas! he dyde in his minority.<br>His dayes and deeds would nere be counted even<br>Without Eternity, which now is given.<br>Such descants poore men make; who miss him more<br>Than sixe great men, that keeping house before<br>After a spurt unconstantly are fledd<br>Away to London. But the man that's dead<br>Is gone unto a place more populous,<br>And tarries longer there, and waites for us.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Strode">William Strode</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=539476" data-title="On The Death Of Sir Thomas Lea de William Strode" data-description="You that affright with lamentable notes
The servants from their beef, whose hungry throats
Vex the grume porter's surly conscience:
That blesse the mint for coyning lesse than pence:
You whose unknown and meanly payd desarts
Begge silently within,..."></div>
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