From the darke Gnomon, o're her volumes runne, 30 Drown'd in eternall night, never to rise, Till Resurrection show it to the eyes Of Earth-worne men; and her shrill trumpet's sound Affright the Bones of mortals from the ground. The Columnes both are crown'd with either Sphere, 35 To show Chronology and History beare, No other Culmen than the double Art, Astronomy, Geography, impart. AN EPITAPH VPON MR. ASHTON, A CONFORMABLE CITIZEN.[82] The modest front of this small floore, 1 Beleeve me, Reader, can say more Than many a braver marble can; _Here lyes a truly honest man._ One whose conscience was a thing, 5 That troubled neither Church nor King. One of those few that in this towne, Honour all Preachers, heare their owne. Sermons he heard, yet not so many As left no time to practise any. 10 He heard them reverendly, and then His practice preach'd them o're agen. His Parlour-Sermons rather were Those to the eye, then to the eare. His prayers took their price and strength, 15 Not from the lowdnesse, nor the length. He was a Protestant at home, Not onely in despight of Rome. He lov'd his Father; yet his zeale Tore not off his Mother's veile. 20 To th' Church he did allow her dresse, True Beauty, to true Holinesse. Peace, which he lov'd in life, did lend Her hand to bring him to his end. When Age and Death call'd for the score, 25 No surfets were to reckon for. Death tore not--therefore--but sans strife Gently untwin'd his thread of life. What remaines then, but that thou Write these lines, Reader, in thy brow, 30 And by his faire example's light, Burne in thy imitation bright. So while these lines can but bequeath A life perhaps unto his death; His better Epitaph shall bee, 35 His life still kept alive in thee. OUT OF CATULLUS.[83]