Did he confirm thy aged?[5] convert thy youth?
Did he these wonders? And is this deare losse
Mourn'd by so few? (few for so great a crosse.)
But sure the silent are ambitious all
To be Close Mourners at his Funerall;
If not; In common pitty they forbare
By repetitions to renew our care;
Or, knowing, griefe conceiv'd, conceal'd, consumes
Man irreparably, (as poyson'd fumes
Doe waste the braine) make silence a safe way,
To'inlarge the Soule from these walls, mud and clay,
(Materials of this body) to remaine
With _Donne_ in heaven, where no promiscuous pain
Lessens the joy we have, for, with _him_, all
Are satisfy'd with _joyes essentiall_.
Dwell on this joy my thoughts; oh, doe not call[6]
Griefe back, by thinking of his Funerall;
Forget hee lov'd mee; Waste not my sad yeares;
(Which hast to _Davids_ seventy,) fill'd with feares
And sorrow for his death; Forget his parts,
Which finde a living grave in good mens hearts;
And, (for, my first is dayly payd for sinne)
Forget to pay my second sigh for him:
Forget his powerfull preaching; and forget
I am his _Convert_. Oh my frailty! let
My flesh be no more heard, it will obtrude
This lethargy: so should my gratitude,
My flowes[7] of gratitude should so be broke;
Which can no more be, than _Donnes_ vertues spoke
By any but himselfe; for which cause, I