|
| Fill'd with her love, may I be rather growne |
| Mad with much heart, then idiott with none. |
|
| Eleg. XI. |
| Death. |
|
| Language thou art too narrow, and too weake |
| To ease us now; great sorrowes cannot speake; |
| If we could sigh out accents, and weepe words, |
| Griefe weares, and lessens, that teares breath affords, |
| Sad hearts, the lesse they seeme, the more they are, |
| (So guiltiest men stand mutest at the barre) |
| Not that they know not, feele not their estate, |
| But extreme sense hath made them desperate; |
| Sorrow, to whom we owe all that we be; |
| Tyran, in the fift and greatest Monarchy, |
| Was't that she did possesse all hearts before, |
| Thou hast kill'd her, to make thy Empire more? |
| Knew'st thou some would, that knew her not, lament, |
| As in a deluge perish th'innocent? |
| Was't not enough to have that palace wonne, |
| But thou must raze it too, that was undone? |
| Hadst thou stayd there, and look'd out at her eyes, |
| All had ador'd thee that now from thee flies, |
| For they let out more light than they tooke in, |
| They told not when, but did the day begin; |
| Shee was too Saphirine, and cleare for thee; |
| Clay, flint, and jeat now thy fit dwellings be;
|
[CW: Alas;] |