An Elegiecall Epistle on Sir John Davis death

Morgan! to call thee sadd and discontente
Were to proclaime thee weake; twere an evente
Of more then folly, since the obscurest eye
Is witness of thy magnanimity:
And yett to tell thee that thou hast noe cause
To greife, were to belye thy worth, because
The gapinge wound speakes out the sovldiers fame,
And deepe despites giue fortitude a name.
Tis true hee's dead, and the sterne fates (accurst)
There browes haue wrinkled, and haue done their worst
To spite this State and thee, in tearinge hence
That Nature's Accademy, that Starre, from whence
Streamd such full influence, of what the mind
Accounteth quintisentiall; and the vnkinde
And cruell Death, hath blasted such a flower,
Stolne such a gemme, as makes the sad Earth poore.
And yett alasse hee is not fledd for want
Of what could make the ambitious, proud soule vaunt:
For whilst hee liv'd hee brocke up Honour's gates,
And pluck't bright fame from snarling Envie's grates
Doomd to obliuion; and his unmatchèd penne
(Drop'd from the winge of some bright Seraphin)
Inculpates him thus to all eternitye
The eldest of the Muses proginie.
Said I hee's dead? not soe; he could not die,
But findinge that curst lucre, bribery
And puft ambition were the scarlett crimes
Of the Tribunall's tenants, and the times
Not suitinge with his vertues, cause his manner
Was to deserue and not desire, an honour;
Hee's sor'd aloft, where nought but virtue's pris'd,
And where base Mammon is not idoliz'd:
To that Kinge's Bench where Iustice is not gould,
Nor honours with old Ladies bought and sould;
To heauen's Exchequer, with intent to paye,
And render thence the Royall subsidaye
Of his rich spirit, which his soueraigne tooke
Without subscription, and crost Nature's booke.