To Sir Horace Vere

Which of thy names I take, not only bears
A Roman sound, but Roman virtue wears,
Illustrious Vere, or Horace; fit to be
Sung by a Horace, or a Muse as free;
Which thou art to thyself: whose fame was won
In the eye of Europe, where thy deeds were done,
When on thy trumpet she did sound a blast,
Whose relish to eternity shall last.
I leave thy acts, which should I prosecute
Throughout, might flattery seem; and to be mute
To any one, were envy; which would live
Against my grave, and time could not forgive.
I speak thy other graces, not less shown,
Nor less in practice; but less mark'd, less known:
Humanity, and piety, which are
As noble in great chiefs, as they are rare;
And best become the valiant man to wear,
Who more should seek men's reverence, than fear.