Funerall Elegies: Eleg. 13

NO, no, he is not dead; The mouth of fame,
Honors shrill Herald, would preserve his name,
And make it live in spight of death and dust,
Were there no other heaven, no other trust.
He is not dead: The sacred Nine deny,
The soule that merits fame, should ever dye:
He lives; and when the latest breath of fame
Shall want her Trumpe, to glorifie a name,
He shall survive and these selfe closed eyes,
That now lie slumbring in the dust, shall rise,
And fill'd with endlesse glory, shall enjoy
The perfect vision of eternall joy.