An Epitaph vpon my deare Brother, Francis Beaumont

On Death thy Murd'rer this reuenge I take:
I slight his terror, and iust question make,
Which of vs two the best precedence haue,
Mine to this wretched world, thine to the graue:
Thou shouldst haue followd me, but death too blame,
Miscounted yeeres, and measur'd age by Fame.
So dearely hast thou bought thy precious lines,
Their praise grew swiftly; so thy life declines:
Thy Muse, the hearers Queene, the Readers loue:
All eares, all hearts (but Deaths) could please and moue.