On the Death of the Lady Marquesse of WINCHESTER.

IN care, lest some advent'rous Lover may
(T'increase his love) cast his owne Stock away;
I (that finde, th'use of griefe is to grow wise)
Forbid all trassique now 'tweene Hearts, and Eyes:
Our remnant-love, let us discreetly save,
Since not augment; for Love, lies in the Grave.
Lest Men; whose patience is their senses sloth,
That only live, t'expect the tedious growth
Of what the following Sommer slowly yeelds;
Whose faire Elizium, is their furrow'd Fields;
Lest these, should so much prize mortalitie;
They ne're would reach the wit, or faith to die;
Know, Summer comes no more; to the dark bed
Our Sunne is gone; the hopefull Spring is dead.
And lest kind Poets, that delight to raise
… With their just truths, not extasie of praise)
Beauty to Fame; should ra…hly overthrow
The credit of their Songs; I let them know
Their Theame is lost; so lost, that I have griev'd,
They never more can praise, and be beleev'd.