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Elegie on the Lady Markham

Man is the World, and death th'Ocean,

To which God gives the lover parts of man.
This Sea invirons all, and though as yet
God hath set markes, and bounds, twixt us and it,
Yet doth it rore, and gnaw, and still pretend,
And breaks our banks, when ere it takes a friend.
Then our land waters (tears of passion) vent;
Our waters, then, above our firmament,
(Teares which our Soule doth for her sins let fall)
Take all a brackish last, and Funerall,
And even these teares, which should wash sin, are sin.
We, after Gods Noe, drowne our word againe.
Nothing but man of all invenom'd things
Doth work upon ftselfe, with inborne stings.
Teares are false Spectacles, we cannot see
Through passion mist, what wee are, or what shee.
In her this sea of death hath made no breach,
But as she tide doth wash the slimie beach,
And leaves embroder'd workes upon the sand,
So is her flesh refin'd by death cold hand.
As men of China, after an ages stay,
Do Take up Procelane, where they buried Clay;
So at this grave, her limbecke, which refines
The Diamonds, Rubies, Saphires, Pearls, and Mines,
Of which this flesh was, her soule shall inspire
Flesh of such stuffe, as God, when his last fire
Annuls this world, to recompence it, shall,
Make and name then, th'Elixar of this All.
They say, the sea, when it gaines, lothes too;
If carnall Death (the younger brother) doe
Usurpe the body, our soul, which subject is
To th'elder death, by sinne, is freed by this;
They perish both, when they attemt the just;
For, graves our trophies are, and both death just;
So, unobnoxious now, she'hath buried both;
For, none to death sinnes, that to sinne is loth,
Nor doe they die, which are not loth to die;
So hath she this, and that virginity.
Grace was in her extremely diligent,
That kept her from sinne, yet made her repent.
Of what small spots pure white complaines! Alas,
How little poyson cracks a christall glasse!
She sinn'd, but just enough to let us see
That God's word must be true, All, sinners be.
So much did zeale her concsience rarefie,
That, extreme truth lack'd little of a lye,
Making omissions, acts; laying the touch
Of sinne, on things that sometimes may be such.
As Moses Cherubines, whose natures doe
Surpasse all speed, by him are winged too:
So would her soule, already'in heaven, seeme then,
To clyme by teares, the common staires of men.
How fit she was for God, I am content
To speake, that Death his vaine hast may repent.
How fit for us, how even and how sweet,
How good in all her titles, and how meete,
To have reform'd this forward heresie,
That woman can no parts of frienship bee;
How Morall, how Divine shall not be told,
Lest they that heare her vertues, thinke her old:
And lest we take Deaths part, and make him glad
Of such a prey, and to his triumph add.