Classic Poem

Keep station Nature, and rest Heaven sure
On thy Supporter's shoulders, least past cure
Thou dash't in ruine fall, by a griefe's weight
Will make thy bases shrink, and lay thy height
Lowe as the Center! Heark, and feele it read
Through the astonish't Kingdom, Henry's dead.
It is enough. Who seekes to aggravate
One straine beyond this, prove more sharp his fate
Then sad our doome. The World dares not survive
To parallell this Woe's superlative.
Oh Killing rhetorick of Death! Two words
Breath stronger terrours, then Plague, Fire, or Swords
E're conquer'd. This were Epitaph and Verse
Worthy to be præfixt on Nature's Hearse,
Or Earth's sad dissolution; whose fall
Will be lesse grievous, though more generall.
For all the woe ruine e're buryed,
Sounds in these fatal accents, Henry's dead.
Cease then unable Poetry; Thy Phrase
Is weak and dull to strike us with amaze
Worthy thy vaster Subject. Let none dare
To coppy this sad happ, but with despaire
Hanging at his quill's point. For not a Streame
Of ink can write, much lesse improve this Theame.
Invention highest wrought by Grief or Witt
Must sink with Him, and on his Tombstone splitt.
Who, like the Dying Sunne, tells us the Light
And glory of our Day sett in His Night.