'Tis lost, to trust a Tombe with such a guest, Or to confine her in a marble chest. Alas, what's Marble, Jeat, or Porphyrie, Priz'd with the Chrysolite of either eye, Or with those Pearles, and Rubies, which she was? 5 Joyne the two Indies in one Tombe, 'tis glasse; And so is all to her materials, Though every inch were ten Escurials, Yet she's demolish'd: can wee keepe her then In works of hands, or of the wits of men? 10 Can these memorials, ragges of paper, give Life to that name, by which name they must live? Sickly, alas, short-liv'd, aborted bee Those carcasse verses, whose soule is not shee. And can shee, who no longer would be shee, 15 Being such a Tabernacle, stoop to be In paper wrapt; or, when shee would not lie In such a house, dwell in an Elegie? But 'tis no matter; wee may well allow Verse to live so long as the world will now, 20 For her death wounded it. The world containes Princes for armes, and Counsellors for braines, Lawyers for tongues, Divines for hearts, and more, The Rich for stomackes, and for backes, the Poore; The Officers for hands, Merchants for feet, 25 By which, remote and distant Countries meet. But those fine spirits which do tune, and set This Organ, are those peeces which beget Wonder and love; and these were shee; and shee Being spent, the world must needs decrepit bee; 30 For since death will proceed to triumph still, He can finde nothing, after her, to kill, Except the world it selfe, so great as shee. Thus brave and confident may Nature bee, Death cannot give her such another blow, 35 Because shee cannot such another show. But must wee say she's dead? may't not be said That as a sundred clocke is peecemeale laid, Not to be lost, but by the makers hand Repollish'd, without errour then to stand, 40 Or as the Affrique Niger streame enwombs It selfe into the earth, and after comes (Having first made a naturall bridge, to passe For many leagues) farre greater then it was, May't not be said, that her grave shall restore 45 Her, greater, purer, firmer, then before? Heaven may say this, and joy in't, but can wee Who live, and lacke her, here this vantage see? What is't to us, alas, if there have beene An Angell made a Throne, or Cherubin? 50 Wee lose by't: and as aged men are glad Being tastlesse growne, to joy in joyes they had, So now the sick starv'd world must feed upon This joy, that we had her, who now is gone. Rejoyce then Nature, and this World, that you, 55 Fearing the last fires hastning to subdue Your force and vigour, ere it were neere gone, Wisely bestow'd and laid it all on one. One, whose cleare body was so pure and thinne,