What teares (Deare Prince) can serve to water all
The plants of woe growne in thy funerall?
Or how can musiques saddest tones expresse
With sights or teares a publique heavinesse?
Only thy death is still the fatall ground,
Wheron all hearts their mournfull descant sound.

In thy pale looks sweete life so longe remaynd,
That Death, afeard shee had her seate regaynd;
The dying ember with cold ashes quelld,
And robd the world of all the worth it held.
O! why should vertue fram'd of heavenly mold
Bereft his heate t'enjoy Deaths ashy cold?

Accursed Death thou couldst not with one blow,
Else where have sought to worke so many's woe.
Yett hast thou mist the marke thou didst intend,
Till thousand lives in whom he lives shall end.
O hadst thou such another blow in store,
The world would dye that thou shouldst bee no more.