Classic Poem

Thy Toomb, Arms, Statue; All things fitt to fall
At foote of Deathe; And worship Funerall
Forme hath bestow'd: for Forme, is nought too deare:
Thy solid Virtues yet; eternis'd here;
My bloode, and wasted spirritts haue onely founde
Commanded Cost: And broke so riche a grounde,
(Not to interr; But make thee euer springe)
As Arms, Toombs, Statues; euerye Earthy Thinge,
Shall fade and vanishe into fume before:
What lasts; thriues lest: yet; welth of soule is poore;
And so tis kept: Not thy thrice sacred will
Sign'd with thy Deathe; moues any to fullfill
Thy Just bequests to me: Thow, dead then; J
Liue deade, for giuing thee Eternitie:
Ad Famam
To all Tymes future, This Tymes Marck extend;
Homer, no Patrone founde; Nor Chapman freind:
Ignotus nimis omnibus;
Sat notus, moritur sibi: