An Epitaph on Henry, Lord La-ware

If, Passenger, thou canst but read,
Stay, drop a tear for him that's dead:
Henry, the brave young lord La-ware,
Minerva's and the Muses' care!
What could their care do 'gainst the spite
Of a disease, that lov'd no light
Of honour, nor no air of good;
But crept like darkness through his blood,
Offended with the dazzling flame
Of virtue, got above his name?
No noble furniture of parts,
No love of action and high arts;
No aim at glory, or in war,
Ambition to become a star,
Could stop the malice of this ill,
That spread his body o'er to kill:
And only his great soul envied,
Because it durst have noblier died.