A Dirge Upon The Death Of The Right Valiant Lord, Bernard Stuart.

Hence, hence, profane! soft silence let us have     While we this trental sing about thy grave.     Had wolves or tigers seen but thee,     They would have showed civility;     And, in compassion of thy years,     Washed those thy purple wounds with tears.     But since thou'rt slain, and in thy fall     The drooping kingdom suffers all;     Chor. This we will do, we'll daily come     And offer tears upon thy tomb:     And if that they will not suffice,     Thou shall have souls for sacrifice.     Sleep in thy peace, while we with spice perfume thee,     And cedar wash thee, that no times consume thee.     Live, live thou dost, and shall; for why?     Souls do not with their bodies die:     Ignoble offsprings, they may fall     Into the flames of funeral:     Whenas the chosen seed shall spring     Fresh, and for ever flourishing.     Chor. And times to come shall, weeping, read thy glory     Less in these marble stones than in thy story.