object to the soule, in death the most deplorable._ _The Funerals of the Honourable, my best friend and Kinsman_, GEORGE TALBOT, Esquire. _Elegie, 1._ Twere malice to the fame; to weepe alone And not enforce an universall groane From ruinous man, and make the World complaine: Yet I'le forbid my griefe to be prophane In mention of thy prayse; I'le speake but truth Yet write more honour than ere shin'd in youth. I can relate thy businesse here on earth, Thy mystery of life, thy noblest birth Out-shin'd by nobler vertue: but how farre Th' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest star, I cannot speake, nor whether thou art in Commission with a Throne, or Cherubin. Passe on triumphant in thy glorious way, Till thou hast reacht the place assign'd: we may Without disturbing the harmonious Spheares, Bathe here below thy memory in our teares. Ten dayes are past, since a dull wonder seis'd My active soule: Loud stormes of sighes are rais'd By empty griefes; they who can utter it, Doe no vent forth their sorrow, but their wit. I stood like _Niobe_ without a grone, Congeal'd into that monumentall stone That doth lye over thee: I had no roome For witty griefe, fit onely for thy tombe. And friendships monument, thus had I stood; But that the flame I beare thee, warm'd my blood With a new life. Ile like a funerall fire But burne a while to thee, and then expire. _Elegie, 2._