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The Exequies
Thomas Stanley
DRAW
neer
You Lovers that complain
Of Fortune or Disdain,
And to my Ashes lend a tear;
Melt the hard marble with your grones,
And soften the relentlesse Stones,
Whose cold imbraces the sad Subject hide
Of all Loves cruelties, and Beauties Pride.
No Verse
No Epicedium bring,
Nor peaceful Requiem sing,
To charm the terrours of my Herse;
No prophane Numbers must flow neer
The sacred silence that dwells here;
Vast Griefs are dumb, softly, oh softly mourn
Lest you disturb the Peace attends my Urn.
Yet strew
Upon my dismall Grave,
Such offerings as you have,
Forsaken Cypresse and sad Ewe;
For kinder Flowers can take no Birth
Or growth from such unhappy Earth.
Weep only o're my Dust, and say, Here lies
To Love and Fate an equal Sacrifice.
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