I will not weep, for 'twere as great a sin To shed a tear for thee, as to have bin An actor in thy death. Thy life and age Was but a various scene on fortune's stage, With whom thou tugg'st and strov'st ev'n out of breath In thy long toil: ne'er master'd till thy death; And then, despite of trains and cruel wit, Thou didst at once subdue malice and it. I dare not then so blast thy memory As say I do lament or pity thee. 10 Were I to choose a subject to bestow My pity on, he should be one as low In spirit as desert;--that durst not die, But rather were content by slavery To purchase life: or I would pity those, Thy most industrious and friendly foes; Who, when they thought to make thee scandal's story, Lent thee a swifter flight to Heav'n and glory;-- That thought, by cutting off some wither'd days (Which thou couldst spare them), to eclipse thy praise; 20 Yet gave it brighter foil, made thy ag'd fame Appear more white and fair, than foul their shame: And did promote an execution Which (but for them) Nature and Age had done. Such worthless things as these were only born To live on Pity's alms (too mean for scorn). Thou diedst an envious wonder, whose high fate The world must still admire, scarce imitate. [_S. W. R._] The initials are not in _MS._, and the identification, though almost certain, is a conjecture of Hannah's. Almost every line fits Raleigh.] [Line: 27 envious] Spenser has this sense, to which in some cases the original 'invidious' comes very close.] _An Elegy upon the L. Bishop of London, John King._ [Died on Good Friday, 1621.] Sad relic of a blessed soul! whose trust We sealed up in this religious dust: O do not thy low exequies suspect, As the cheap arguments of our neglect. 'Twas a commanded duty, that thy grave As little pride as thou thyself should have. Therefore thy covering is an humble stone, And but a word for thy inscription. When those that in the same earth neighbour thee, Have each his chronicle and pedigree: 10 They have their waving pennons and their flags (Of matches and alliance formal brags), When thou (although from ancestors thou came, Old as the Heptarchy, great as thy name,) Sleep'st there inshrin'd in thy admired parts, And hast no heraldry but thy deserts. Yet let not them their prouder marbles boast, For they rest with less honour, though more cost. Go, search the world, and with your mattocks wound The groaning bosom of the patient ground: 20 Dig from the hidden veins of her dark womb All that is rare and precious for a tomb; Yet when much treasure, and more time, is spent, You must grant his the nobler monument, Whose Faith stands o'er him for a hearse, and hath The Resurrection for his epitaph.