Thomas Stanley (1625–1678)

DRAW near,

You lovers, that complain

Of Fortune or Disdain,

And to my ashes lend a tear.

Melt the hard marble with your groans,

And soften the relentless stones,

Whose cold embraces the sad subject hide

Of all Love’s cruelties, and Beauty’s pride.

No verse,

No epicedium, bring;

Nor peaceful requiem sing,

To charm the terrors of my hearse;

No profane numbers must flow near

The sacred silence that dwells here.

Vast griefs are dumb; softly, oh softly mourn!

Lest you disturb the peace attends my urn.

Yet strew

Upon my dismal grave

Such offerings as you have:

Forsaken cypress, and sad yew;

For kinder flowers can take no birth

Or growth from such unhappy earth.

Weep only o’er my dust, and say: ‘Here lies

To Love and Fate an equal sacrifice.’