Epistle XXVI. An Elogy on a Lady that dyed before her intended Nuptials

Among the train of mourners, whose swoln eyes
Wallow in tears of these sad obsequies;
Admit me as a cypher here to come,
Who though am nothing, yet can raise a sum:
And truly I can mourn as well as they
Who're clad in sable weeds, though mine is gray.
Excuse me Sir, passion will swell that's pent;
Thank not my tears, I cannot but lament,
To see a Lady ready for your bed,
To death's imbraces yield her mayden-head:
And that Angellick Corps, that should have been
A Cabinet to lodge your Jewels in,
Should now b'imbalm'd with dust, and made a prey
To the happy worms, who may call that day
On which her limbs unto their lot did fall;
Your sad Solemnities, their Festival:
Should I not mourn, I could not pay the due,
Of tears to her, or sympathy to you:
For Death did flay you both, when she did dye,
So who writes one's must write both's Elegy.
She was too good for you, she was too high,
A wife for Angels, to get Angels by:
Whom you and all did love, and did suppose,
To be an Angel in a mortal's cloaths:
But Heaven to undeceive you let you know,
By her mortality, she was not so.