The bloody trunk of him who did possess About the rest of a hapless happy state, This little Stone doth Seal, but not depress, All scarce can stop the rowling of his fate. Brass Tombs which justice hath denied this fault, The common pity to his virtues pays, Adorning an Imaginary vault, Which from our minds time strives in vain to raze. Ten years the world upon him falsely smiled, Sheathing in fawning looks the deadly knife Long aimed at his head; That so beguiled It more securely might bereave his Life; Then threw him to a Scaffold from a Throne, Much Doctrine lies under this little Stone. |