Thomas Beedome

H. P., "To the Memorie of his friend, Master Thomas Beedome" Beedome, Poems (1641) sigs A7v-A8.

Mistake me not, I am not hither come,
With a selfe-seeking-praise Encomium,
I am no Poet, and my worthless name,
May but detract, not adde to my friends fame.
I know he will not want more then one friend,
That know his worth, and know it to commend,
And with the next impression, this thin Booke,
I prophesie, shall like a Volume looke.
Thickened with severall Poems in his praise,
That all his readers will adde to his bayes,
I come but to unbend my heavie eye,
Upon this spare blanke, in an Elegie.
Then let me weepe a sigh-through-mangled verse,
Steep'd deepe in teares, upon his honour'd hearse,
Tell yee he's gone, whose muses early flight,
Gave hopes to th' world, we nere should see a night
Of Poetry, that th' Widdow of those rare men,
Spencer, and Drayton, admir'd Donne, great Ben,
Should now remarried be, but see th' ill lucke,
When just the match was made, oh the rude plucke!
Death snatch'd him hence, left Poetry, and us,
To weepe her owne, and in him, our losse thus.
Griefe stops my eye-streame now, kind reader then,
Lend me a teare till I can weepe agen.
Yet lest you should beleeve the teare you lent,
Was but profus'dly wasted, and repent,
Read ore his Booke, remember th' Author's dead,
You'l shed one more, that you but one did shed.