Silence (in truth) would speak my sorrow best,
For, deepest wounds can least their feelings tell;
Yet, let me borrow from mine own unrest,
But time to bid him, whom I lov'd, farewel.

O my unhappy lines! you that before
Have serv'd my youth to vent some wanton cries,
And now congeal'd with grief, can scarce implore
Strength to accent! Here my Albertus lies.

This is the sable Stone, this is the Cave,
And womb of earth that doth his Corps embrace;
While others sing his praise, let me engrave
These bleeding Numbers to adorn the place.

Here will I paint the Characters of woe,
Here will I pay may tribute to the Dead,
And here my faithful tears in showers shall flow,
To humanize the Flints whereon I tread.

Where though I mourn my matchless loss alone,
And none between my weakness judge and me;
Yet even these gentle walls allow my moan,
Whose doleful Ecchoes to my Plaints agree.

But is he gone? and live I rhyming here,
As if some Muse would listen to my Lay,
When all distun'd sit waiting for their Dear,
And bathe the Banks where he was wont to play?

Dwell thou in endless Light, discharged Soul;
Freed now from Natures, and from Fortunes trust:
While on this fluent Globe my glass shall role,
And run the rest of my remaining dust.

Sir Henry Wotton

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tears-at-the-grave-of-sir-albertus-morton-who-was-buried-at-southampton-wept-by-sir-h-wotton/