Steps to the temple sacred poems, with other delights of the muses / by Richard Crashaw ...

His Epitaph.

PAssenger who e're thou art, Stay a while, and let thy Heart Take acquaintance of this stone, Before thou passest further on. This stone will tell thee that beneath, Is entomb'd the Crime of Death; The ripe endowments of whose mind, Left his Yeares so much behind, That numbring of his vertuos praise, Death lost the reckoning of his Dayes; And believing what they told, Imagin'd him exceeding old. In him perfection did set forth, The strength of her united worth. Him his wisdomes pregnant growth Made so reverend, even in Youth, That in the Center of his Brest (Sweet as is the Phaenix nest) Every reconciled Grace, Had their Generall meeting place In him Goodnesse joy'd to see Learning, learne Humility. The splendor of his Birth and Blood, Was but the Glosse of his owne Good: The flourish of his sober Youth, Was the Pride of Naked Truth. In composure of his face, Liv'd a faire, but manly Grace. His Mouth was Rhetoricks best mold, His Tongue the Touchstone of her Gold. What word so e're his Breath kept warme, Was no word now but a charme.

For all persuasive Graces thence Suck't their sweetest Influence. His vertue that within had root, Could not chuse but shine without. And th'heart-bred lustre of his worth, At each corner peeping forth, Pointed him out in all his wayes, Circled round in his owne Rayes: That to his sweetnesse, all mens eyes Were vow'd Loves flaming Sacrifice. Him while fresh and fragrant Time Cherisht in his Golden Prime; E're Hebe's hand had overlaid His smooth cheekes, with a downy shade: The rush of Death's unruly wave, Swept him off into his Grave. Enough, now (if thou canst) passe on, For now (alas) not in this stone (Passenger who e're thou art) Is he entomb'd, but in thy Heart.