An Epitaph on Walter Merry, Gent

Here buried lyes his kindreds top,
And flower of worth renown'd,
Whom ruder fates too soone did crop,
T' Embosome thus in ground:
Who, having drunke the heavenly dew
Of grace, blind Natures guide,
Straight (like the Heliotrope) withdrew,
Clos'd up his sweets, and dy'd.
Yee virgin Nymphs, with many a teare
Your Christ all Viols fill,
And all those lyquid treasures here
Vpon this Grave distill,
That Roses here and Violets
From beauty sowne below
May spring, to decke your Coronets,
And sweeten all your woe.