Wouldst thou hear what Man can say In a little? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much Beauty as could die: Which in life did harbour give To more Virtue than doth live. If at all she had a fault, Leave it buried in this vault. One name was _Elizabeth_, The other, let it sleep with death: Fitter, where it died, to tell Than that it lived at all. Farewell. _ii_ _193._ _On Salathiel Pavy_ _A child of Queen Elizabeth’s Chapel_ Weep with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed Death’s self is sorry. ’Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As Heaven and Nature seem’d to strive Which own’d the creature. Years he number’d scarce thirteen When Fates turn’d cruel, Yet three fill’d zodiacs had he been The stage’s jewel; And did act (what now we moan) Old men so duly, As sooth the Parcae thought him one, He play’d so truly. So, by error, to his fate They all consented; But, viewing him since, alas, too late! They have repented; And have sought, to give new birth, In baths to steep him; But, being so much too good for earth, Heaven vows to keep him. _194._ _A Part of an Ode_ _to the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison_ It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night; It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures, life may perfect be. Call, noble _Lucius_, then for wine, And let thy looks with gladness shine: Accept this garland, plant it on thy head, And think--nay, know--thy _Morison_’s not dead. He leap’d the present age, Possest with holy rage To see that bright eternal Day Of which we Priests and Poets say Such truths as we expect for happy men; And there he lives with memory--and Ben _Jonson_: who sung this of him, ere he went Himself to rest, Or tast a part of that full joy he meant To have exprest In this bright Asterism Where it were friendship’s schism-- Were not his _Lucius_ long with us to tarry-- To separate these twy Lights, the Dioscuri, And keep the one half from his _Harry_. But fate doth so alternate the design, Whilst that in Heav’n, this light on earth must shine.