Tixall Poetry.
93
If, when alive, he was the cause of breath,
Why, being dead, does he not cause my death?
This is a miracle from you I know,
For I must live whilest you will have it so.
Nor can this new giv'n life be better spent
Then to contemplate this sad monument:
Th' inclosure of a worth the world nere knew,
But in his time, and it was from him too.
So sweet a winning way he had on all,
None knew but lov'd him, no desert so small
But he would grace, and still did something say,
That none could goe unsatisfy'd away.
We may presume in heaven he went no less,
By his so soone conferred happines.
Could we consider this but as we ought,
How vane's our sorrow! what is ever sought
By all our prayres but now he dos possess,
Tis then most fit that we should acquiesce.
Why, being dead, does he not cause my death?
This is a miracle from you I know,
For I must live whilest you will have it so.
Nor can this new giv'n life be better spent
Then to contemplate this sad monument:
Th' inclosure of a worth the world nere knew,
But in his time, and it was from him too.
So sweet a winning way he had on all,
None knew but lov'd him, no desert so small
But he would grace, and still did something say,
That none could goe unsatisfy'd away.
We may presume in heaven he went no less,
By his so soone conferred happines.
Could we consider this but as we ought,
How vane's our sorrow! what is ever sought
By all our prayres but now he dos possess,
Tis then most fit that we should acquiesce.
