Epitaph on Sir Philip Sidney

Silence augmenteth griefe, writing encreaseth rage,
Staid are my thoughts, which lou'd & lost, the wonder of our age,
Yet quickned now with fire, though dead with frost ere now,
Enrag'de I write, I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how.

Hard harted mindes relent, and Rigor's teares abound,
And Enuie strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found,
Knowledge his light hath lost, Valor hath slaine her knight,
Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight.

Place pensiue wailes his fall, whose presence was hir pride,
Time crieth out, my ebbe is come: his life was my spring tide,
Fame mournes in that she lost, the ground of hir reports,
Ech liuing wight laments his lacke, and all in sundry sorts.

He was -- wo worth that word -- to ech well thinking minde,
A spotlesse friend, a matchles man, whose vertue euer shinde,
Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ,
Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.

He onely like himselfe, was second vnto none,
Where death -- though life -- we rue, & wrong, and al in vaine do mone,
Their losse, not him waile they, that fill the world with cries,
Death slue not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies.

Now sinke of sorrow I, who liue, the more the wrong,
Who wishing Death, whom death denies, whose thread is al to long,
Who tied to wretched life, who lookes for no reliefe,
Must spend my euer dying daies, in neuer-ending griefe.

Hart's ease and onely I, like paraleles run on,
Whose equall length, keepe equall bredth, & neuer meete in one,
Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrowes cell,
Shall not run out, though leake they will, for liking him so well.

Farewell to you my hopes, my wonted waking dreames,
Farewell sometimes enioied ioy, eclipsed are thy beames,
Farewell selfe pleasing thoughts, which quietnes brings foorth,
And farewel friendships sacred league, vniting minds of woorth.

And farewel mery hart, the gift of guiltles mindes,
And all sports, which for liues restore, varietie assignes,
Let all that sweete is, voide: in me no mirth may dwell,
Philip, the cause of all this woe, my liues content farewell.

Now rime, the sonne of rage, which art no kin to skill,
And endles griefe, which deads my life, yet knowes not how to kill,
Go seeke that haples tombe, which if ye hap to finde,
Salute the stones, that keepe the lims, that held so good a minde.