Take, greedy death, a body here entomd <br />That by a thousand stroakes was made one wound, <br />Where all thy shafts were stuck with fatall ayme <br />Untill a quiver this thy marke became, <br />Had Cæsar fifty wounds to let in thee <br />Because a troop of men might seeme to bee <br />Comprised in that great Spirit, this had more <br />Whose deaths were equalld with the fruitfull store <br />Of hopefull vertues, though each wound did reach <br />The very heart, yet none could make a breach <br />Into his soule, a soule more fully drest <br />With vertuous gemmes than was his body prest <br />With hatefull spotts, and therefore every scarr <br />When death itselfe is dead shall be a starre.<br /><br />William Strode<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-sir-thomas-savill-dying-of-the-small-pox/
