The first day of this month the last hath bin <br />To that deare soule. March never did come in <br />So lyonlike as now: our lives are made <br />As fickle as the weather or the shade. <br />March dust growes plenty now, while wasting fate <br />Strike heare to dust, well worth the proverbs rate. <br />I could be angry with the fates that they <br />This man of men so soone have stole away. <br />Meane they a kingdome to undoe, or make <br />The universe a Cripple while they take <br />From us so cheife a part, whose art knew how <br />To make a man a man, nor would allow <br />Nature an Heteroclite still to remaine <br />Irregular, but with a jugling paine <br />Deceive men of their greife, and make them know <br />That he could cure more than ere chance or foe <br />Dare to instring. Death now growes politique: <br />While Otton liv'd herselfe was weake and sicke <br />For want of food, therefore at him she aimde <br />Who bar'd her of her purpose. All is maimde, <br />All's out of joint, for in this fatall crosse <br />Behold Death's triumph and our fatall losse.<br /><br />William Strode<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-death-of-mr-james-van-otton/
