My name, dear friend, even thy expiring breath Did call upon: affirming that thy death Would wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must be Indeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee. My Lord, if I with licence of your teares, (Which your great brother's hearse as dyamonds weares T' enrich deaths glory) may but speake my owne: Ile prove it, that no sorrow ere was knowne Reall as mine. All other mourners keepe In griefe a method: without forme I weepe. The sonne (rich in his fathers fate) hath eyes Wet just as long as are the obsequies. The widow formerly a yeare doth spend In her so courtly blackes. But for a Friend We weepe an age, and more than th' Achorit, have Our very thoughts confin'd within a Grave. Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flame And thou _Castara_ who had hadst a name, But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verse Is lost to you, and onely on _Talbots_ herse Sadly attends. And till times fatall hand Ruines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand. There to thy selfe, deare _Talbot_, Ile repeate Thy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how great Thou wert in thy mindes Empire, and how all Who out-live thee, see but the Funerall Of glory: and if yet some vertuous be, They but weake apparitions are of thee. So setled were thy thoughts, each action so Discreetely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flow Was ere perceiv'd in thee: each word mature And every sceane of life from sinne so pure That scarce in its whole history, we can Finde vice enough, to say thou wert but man. Horror to say thou wert! Curst that we must Addresse our language to a little dust, And seeke for _Talbot_ there. Injurious fate, To lay my lifes ambition desolate. Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know, Not how it can give such another blow. _Elegie, 5._