On Death thy Murd'rer this revenge I take: I slight his terror, and just question make, Which of us two the best precedence have, Mine to this wretched world, thine to the grave: Thou shouldst have followd me, but death too blame, Miscounted yeeres, and measur'd age by Fame. So dearely hast thou bought thy precious lines, Their praise grew swiftly; so thy life declines: Thy Muse, the hearers Queene, the Readers love: All cares, all hearts (but Deaths) could please and move.
