VII: Some Verses: On The Death of John Murray

Mourne Muses, mourne, your greatest gallant dyes,
Who free in state did court your sacred traine,
Your Minion Murray, Albiones sweetest swaine,
Who soar'd so high, now sore neglected lyes.
If of true worth the world had right esteemd
His loftie thoughts what bounds could haue confind?
But Fortune feard to match with such a mind,
Where all his due, and not her gift had seemd.
Faire Nymphes whose brood doth stand with Tyme at stryf,
Dare Death presume heauens darelings thus to daunt?
To flattering fancies then in vaine you vaunt
That you for euer will prolong a lyf.
He gracd your band, and not your bayes his brow:
You happie were in him, he not by you.