XIII: Some Verses: On A Report On The Death Of The Author

If that were true, which whispered is by Fame,
That Damons light no more on Earth doth burne,
His patron Phœbus physicke would disclame,
And cloath'd in clowds as earst for Phæton mourne.
Yea, Fame by this had got so deepe a Wound,
That scarce Shee could haue power to tell his Death,
Her Wings cutte short; who could her Trumpet sound,
Whose Blaze of late was nurc't but by His breath?
That Spirit of His which most with mine was free,
By mutuall trafficke enterchanging Store,
If chac'd from Him it would haue come to mee,
Where it so oft familiare was before.
Some secret Griefe distempering first my Minde,
Had (though not knowing) made mee feele this losse:
A Sympathie had so our Soules combind,
That such a parting both at once would tosse.
Though such Reportes to others terrour giue,
Thy heavenly Vertues who did neuer spie,
I know, Thou, that canst make the dead to liue,
Immortal art, and needes not feare to die.