Meerly for man's death to mourne <br />Were to repine that man was borne. <br />When weake old age doth fall asleepe <br />Twere foule ingratitude to weepe: <br />Those threads alone should pull out tears <br />Whose sodayne cracke breaks off some years. <br />Heere tis not so: full distance heere <br />Sunders the cradle from the beere. <br />A fellow-traveller he hath beene <br />So long with Time: so worne to skinne, <br />That were hee not just now bereft, <br />His Body first his soule had left, <br />Threescore and tenne is Nature's date, <br />Our journey when wee come in late. <br />Beyond that time the overplus <br />Was granted not to him, but us. <br />For his own sake the Sun nere stood, <br />But only for the peoples good. <br />Even so his breath held out by aire <br />Which poore men uttered in theyr prayer: <br />And as his goods were lent to give, <br />So were his dayes that they might live, <br />Soe ten years more to him were told <br />Enough to make another olde. <br />O that Death would still doe soe; <br />Or else on good men would bestow <br />That wast of years which unthrifts fling <br />Away by theyr distempering, <br />That some might thrive by this decay <br />As well as that of land and clay. <br />'Twas now well done: no cause to moane <br />On such a seasonable stone. <br />Where death is but an Host, we sinne <br />Not bidding welcome to his Inne. <br /> Sleepe, sleepe, thy rest, good man, embrace; <br /> Sleepe, sleepe, th' ast trode a weary race.<br /><br />William Strode<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-death-of-sir-tho-peltham/
