Silence (in truth) would speak my sorrow best, <br />For, deepest wounds can least their feelings tell; <br />Yet, let me borrow from mine own unrest, <br />But time to bid him, whom I lov'd, farewel. <br /> <br />O my unhappy lines! you that before <br />Have serv'd my youth to vent some wanton cries, <br />And now congeal'd with grief, can scarce implore <br />Strength to accent! Here my Albertus lies. <br /> <br />This is the sable Stone, this is the Cave, <br />And womb of earth that doth his Corps embrace; <br />While others sing his praise, let me engrave <br />These bleeding Numbers to adorn the place. <br /> <br />Here will I paint the Characters of woe, <br />Here will I pay may tribute to the Dead, <br />And here my faithful tears in showers shall flow, <br />To humanize the Flints whereon I tread. <br /> <br />Where though I mourn my matchless loss alone, <br />And none between my weakness judge and me; <br />Yet even these gentle walls allow my moan, <br />Whose doleful Ecchoes to my Plaints agree. <br /> <br />But is he gone? and live I rhyming here, <br />As if some Muse would listen to my Lay, <br />When all distun'd sit waiting for their Dear, <br />And bathe the Banks where he was wont to play? <br /> <br />Dwell thou in endless Light, discharged Soul; <br />Freed now from Natures, and from Fortunes trust: <br />While on this fluent Globe my glass shall role, <br />And run the rest of my remaining dust.<br /><br />Sir Henry Wotton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tears-at-the-grave-of-sir-albertus-morton-who-was-buried-at-southampton-wept-by-sir-h-wotton/
