No, no, he is not dead ; the mouth of fame,
Honor's shrill herald, would preserve his name,
And make it live in spight of death and dust,
Were there no other heaven, no other trust.
He is not dead: the sacred nine deny
The soule that merits fame should ever die:
He lives, and when the latest breath of fame
Shall want her trumpe, to glorify a name,
He shall survive, and these selfe-closed eyes
That now lie slumbering in the dust shall rise,
And, fill'd with endlesse glory, shall enjoy
The perfect vision of eternall joy.