Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

On the death of D^r DONNE.

I Cannot blame those men, that knew thee well, Yet dare not helpe the world, to ring thy knell In tunefull Elegies; there's not language knowne Fit for thy mention, but 'twas first thy owne; The Epitaphs thou writst, have so bereft Our tongue of wit, there is not phansie left Enough to weepe thee; what henceforth we see Of Art or Nature, must result from thee. There may perchance some busie gathering friend Steale from thy owne workes, and that, varied, lend, Which thou bestow'st on others, to thy Hearse, And so thou shalt live still in thine owne verse; Hee that shall venture farther, may commit A pitied errour, shew his zeale, not wit. Fate hath done mankinde wrong; vertue may aime Reward of conscience, never can, of fame, Since her great trumpet's broke, could onely give Faith to the world, command it to beleeve; Hee then must write, that world define thy parts: Here lyes the best Divinitie, All the Arts.

Edw. Hyde.