On the DEATH of my Brother. A SONNET

ASk me not why the Rose doth fade,
Lillies look pale, and Flowers dye;
Question not why the Myrtle shade
Her wonted shadows doth deny.

Seek not to know from whence begun
The sadness of the Nightingale:
Nor why the Heliotrope and Sun,
Their constant Amity do fail.

The Tur•les grief look not upon,
Nor reason why the Palm-trees mourn;
When, Widow-like, they're left alone,
Nor Phoenix why her self doth burn.

For since He's dead, which Life did give
To all these things, which here I name;
They fade, change, wither, cease to live,
Pine and consume into a Flame.