Prison-pietie, or, Meditations divine and moral digested into poetical heads, on mixt and various subjects : whereunto is added a panegyrick to the right reverend, and most nobly descended, Henry Lord Bishop of London / by Samuel Speed ...

¶ The Grave.

THough Clay, my Cottage is secure: Princes do dwell with me; And my foundations do endure for aye. Death waits on me, and with his dart Sends me the stoutest he, And, Champion-like, commands the heart to stay. Then be he Rich, or be he Poor, A Spark, or else a Clown, They lie together on the floor, and so They sleep as if they lay upon The softest Bed of Down. Troubles are fled, and Griefs are gone: for though The Body naked in the cold Earth lies, The Soul sings Hallelujahs 'bove the Skies.