The modest front of this small floore,
Beleeve me, Reader, can say more
Than many a braver marble can;
Here lyes a truly honest man.
One whose conscience was a thing,
That troubled neither Church nor King.
One of those few that in this towne,
Honour all Preachers, heare their owne.
Sermons he heard, yet not so many
As left no time to practise any.
He heard them reverendly, and then
His practice preach'd them o're agen.
His Parlour-Sermons rather were
Those to the eye, then to the eare.
His prayers took their price and strength,
Not from the lowdnesse, nor the length.
He was a Protestant at home,
Not onely in despight of Rome.
He lov'd his Father; yet his zeale
Tore not off his Mother's veile.
To th' Church he did allow her dresse,
True Beauty, to true Holinesse.
Peace, which he lov'd in life, did lend
Her hand to bring him to his end.
When Age and Death call'd for the score,
No surfets were to reckon for.
Death tore not—therefore—but sans strife
Gently untwin'd his thread of life.
What remaines then, but that thou
Write these lines, Reader, in thy brow,
And by his faire example's light,
Burne in thy imitation bright.
So while these lines can but bequeath
A life perhaps unto his death;
His better Epitaph shall bee,
His life still kept alive in thee.