Classic Poem

Fond wight, who dreamst of greatness, glory, state,
And worlds of pleasures, honours dost devise,
Awake, learne how that here thou art not great
Nor glorious, by this monument turne wise.

One it enshrineth, sprung of ancient stemm,
And, if that blood nobility can make,
From which some kings have not disdain'd to take
Their proud descent, a rare and matchlesse gemm.

A beauty here it holds by full assurance,
Than which no blooming rose was more refin'd,
Nor morning's blush more radiant ever shin'd,
Ah! too too like to morne and rose at last.

It holds her who in wit's ascendant far
Did yeares and sex transcend, to whom the heaven
More vertue than to all this age had given,
For vertue meteor turn'd, when she a star.

Faire mirth, sweet conversation, modesty,
And what those kings of numbers did conceive
By Muses nine, and Graces moe than three,
Lye clos'd within the compasse of this grave.
Thus death all earthly glories doth confound,
Loe how much worth a little dust doth bound!