Sad Relick of a blessed Soul! whose trust <br />We sealed up in this religious dust. <br />O do not thy low Exequies suspect <br />As the cheap arguments of our neglect. <br />'Twas a commanded duty that thy grave <br />As little pride as thou thy self should have. <br />Therefore thy covering is an humble stone, <br />And but a word for thy inscription. <br />When those that in the same earth neighbour thee, <br />Have each his Chronicle and Pedigree: <br />They have their waving pennons and their flagges, <br />(Of Matches and Alliance formal bragges.) <br />VVhen thou (although from Ancestors thou came <br />Old as the Heptarchy, great as thy Name) <br />Sleep'st there inshrin'd in thy admired parts, <br />And hast no Heraldry but thy deserts. <br />Yet let not Them their prouder Marbles boast, <br />For They rest with less honour, though more cost. <br />Go, search the world, and with your Mattocks wound <br />The groaning bosom of the patient ground: <br />Digge from the hidden veins of her dark womb <br />All that is rare and precious for a tomb: <br />Yet when much treasure, and more time is spent <br />You must grant His the nobler Monument. <br />Whose Faith stands ore Him for a Hearse, and hath <br />The Resurrection for His Epitaph.<br /><br />Henry King<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-elegy-upon-the-l-bishop-of-london-john-king/
