A Dirge Upon The Death Of The Right Valiant Lord, Bernard Stuart

By Robert Herrick

    Hence, hence, profane! soft silence let us have
    While we this trental sing about thy grave.

    Had wolves or tigers seen but thee,
    They would have showed civility;
    And, in compassion of thy years,
    Washed those thy purple wounds with tears.
    But since thou’rt slain, and in thy fall
    The drooping kingdom suffers all;

    Chor. This we will do, we’ll daily come
    And offer tears upon thy tomb:
    And if that they will not suffice,
    Thou shall have souls for sacrifice.
    Sleep in thy peace, while we with spice perfume thee,
    And cedar wash thee, that no times consume thee.

    Live, live thou dost, and shall; for why?
    Souls do not with their bodies die:
    Ignoble offsprings, they may fall
    Into the flames of funeral:
    Whenas the chosen seed shall spring
    Fresh, and for ever flourishing.

    Chor. And times to come shall, weeping, read thy glory
    Less in these marble stones than in thy story.

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