Grief. 1664

FArewel, dear Sister! precious Soul, farewel!
Go to thy fitter place, where thou wilt dwell
With thy Companions, spotless Virgins; where
Thy Veil will be as white as any there:
Of thine own spinning too, e're thou went'st hence;
Made up of Chastity, and Innocence.
But now, alas, this sad truth I have learn'd,
None can write Elegies that are concern'd.
Objects too near, are never seen so well
As those which at remoter distance dwell.
Grief, when tis gotten to the highest pitch,
Damms up our tears, and locks up all our Speech.
Groans then prove you articulate! appear
So courteous, Reader, as to drop a tear.
And since Grief dulls the Muses; please to try
Thy fitter Genius for an Elegy.
And when th' hast lost as dear a Friend as mine,
I promise here to doe as much for thine.