The modest front of this small floore Beleeve mee, Reader can say more Then 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. Hee heard them reverendly, and then His practice preach'd them o're agen. For every day his deedes put on His Sundayes repetition. His Parlour-Sermons rather were Those to the Eye, then to the Eare. His prayers tooke their price and strength Not from the lowdnesse, nor the length. Hee was a Protestant at home, Not onely in despight of Rome. He lov'd his Father; yet his zeale Tore not off his Mothers veile. To th' Church hee did allow her Dresse, True Beauty, to true Holinesse. Peace, which hee 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 Examples 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. |