Classic Poem

Sorrow and Honor were at strife
To wayle thy death or praise thy lief.
Sorrow for thee a Toombe would frame,
Honor would Epitaphe the same.
But Fame doth challenge both those cares
Who for thy worth her Trump prepares.
Which in her Temple rings thy Knell,
Where thou in death, dost living dwell.
Thy Toomb shee builds in Bedfords brest,
Where Sorrow doth with Honor rest.
Which loves inscription on it beares,
Ingrav'd with thy deare Mothers teares.
And for thy sake, Ile kisse that ground
Where such another flower is found.
Meane while may noble hearts lament,
Soe great a Treasure soe soone spent.