Look in my book, and herein see Life endless signed to thee and me. We o'er the tombs and fates shall fly; While other generations die. 907. UPON M. WILLIAM LAWES, THE RARE MUSICIAN. Should I not put on blacks, when each one here Comes with his cypress and devotes a tear? Should I not grieve, my Lawes, when every lute, Viol, and voice is by thy loss struck mute? Thy loss, brave man! whose numbers have been hurl'd, And no less prais'd than spread throughout the world. Some have thee call'd Amphion; some of us Nam'd thee Terpander, or sweet Orpheus: Some this, some that, but all in this agree, Music had both her birth and death with thee. _Blacks_, mourning garments. 908. A SONG UPON SILVIA. From me my Silvia ran away, And running therewithal A primrose bank did cross her way, And gave my love a fall. But trust me now, I dare not say What I by chance did see; But such the drap'ry did betray That fully ravished me. 909. THE HONEYCOMB. If thou hast found an honeycomb, Eat thou not all, but taste on some: For if thou eat'st it to excess, That sweetness turns to loathsomeness. Taste it to temper, then 'twill be Marrow and manna unto thee. 910. UPON BEN JONSON. Here lies Jonson with the rest Of the poets: but the best. Reader, would'st thou more have known? Ask his story, not this stone. That will speak what this can't tell Of his glory. So farewell. 911. AN ODE FOR HIM. Ah Ben! Say how, or when Shall we thy guests Meet at those lyric feasts Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun? Where we such clusters had, As made us nobly wild, not mad; And yet each verse of thine Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine. My Ben! Or come again, Or send to us Thy wit's great overplus; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it, Lest we that talent spend: And having once brought to an end That precious stock; the store Of such a wit the world should have no more. _The Sun_, _etc._, famous taverns. 912. UPON A VIRGIN. Spend, harmless shade, thy nightly hours Selecting here both herbs and flowers; Of which make garlands here and there To dress thy silent sepulchre. Nor do thou fear the want of these _In everlasting properties_, Since we fresh strewings will bring hither, Far faster than the first can wither. 913. BLAME. In battles what disasters fall, The king he bears the blame of all. 914. A REQUEST TO THE GRACES.