Classic Poem

Among the train of mourners, whose swolne eyes
Wallow in tears at these sad obsequies,
Admit me as a cypher here to come,
Who though am nothing, yet can raise a summe,
And truly I can mourne as well as they,
Who're clad in sable weeds, though mine is gray
Excuse me Sir, passion will swell that's pent,
Thank not my tears, I cannot but lament
To see a Lady ready for your bed
To death's imbraces yeild her mayden head.
And that Angellick Corps that should have been
A Cabinet to lodge your Jewels in,
Should now b'imbalm'd with dust, and made a prey
To the happy wormes, who may call that day
On which her lims unto their lot did fall,
Your sad Solemnities, their Festival;
Should I not mourn, I could not pay the due,
Of tears to her or sympathy to you
For death did slay you both when she did dye,
So who writes one's must write both's Elegy.
She was too good for you, she was too high,
A wife for Angels to get Angels by.
In whom there was as much Divinity,
And excellence, as could in woman be.
Whom you and all did love and did suppose,
To be an Angel in a mortalls cloaths;
But Heaven to undeceive you let you know,
By her mortality she was not so.