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Henry King - AN ELEGY Upon my Best Friend L. K. C.
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Should we our Sorrows in this Method range, 
Oft as Misfortune doth their Subjects change, 
And to the sev`ral Losses which befall, 
Pay diff`rent Rites at ev`ry Funeral; 
Like narrow Springs drain`d by dispersed Streams, 
We must want Tears to wail such various Themes, 
And prove defective in Deaths mournfull Laws, 
Not having Words proportion`d to each Cause. 
In your Dear loss my much afflicted Sense, 
Discerns this Truth by sad experience, 
Who never Look`d my Verses should survive, 
As wet Records, That you are not Alive; 
And less desir`d to make that Promise due, 
Which pass`d from Me in jest, when urg`d by You. 
How close and slily doth our Frailty work! 
How undiscover`d in the Body lurk! 
That Those who this Day did salute you well, 
Before the Next were frighted by your Knell. 
O wherefore since we must in Order rise, 
Should we not Fall in equal Obsequies? 
But bear th` Assaults of an uneven Fate, 
Like Feavers which their Hour anticipate; 
Had this Rule constant been, my long wish`d End 
Might render you a Mourner for your Friend: 
As He for you, whose most deplor`d surprise 
Imprints your Death on all my Faculties; 
That hardly my dark Phant`sie or Discourse, 
This final Duty from the Pen inforce: 
Such Influence hath your Eclipsed Light, 
It doth my Reason like my Self benight. 
Let me, with Luckless Gamesters, then think best 
(After I have Set up and Lost my Rest,) 
Grow`n desp`rate through mischance, to Venture last 
My whole remaining Stock upon a Cast, 
And flinging from me my now Loathed Pen, 
Resolve for your Sake nev`r to Write agen: 
For whilst Successive days their Light renew, 
I must no Subject hope to Equal you, 
In whose Heroick Brest as in their Sphear, 
All Graces of your Sex concentred were. 
Thus take I my long Farewell of that Art, 
Fit only glorious Actions to impart; 
That Art wherewith our Crosses we beguile, 
And make them in Harmonious numbers smile: 
Since you are gone, This holds no further use, 
Whose Virtue and Desert inspir`d my Muse. 
O may She in your Ashes Buried be, 
Whilst I my Self become the Elegie. 
And as it is observ`d when Princes Dye, 
In honour of that sad Solemnity, 
The now unoffic`d Servants crack their Staves, 
And throw them down into their Masters Graves: 
So this last Office of my broken Verse, 
I solemnly resign upon your Hearse; 
And my Brains moisture, all that is unspent, 
Shall melt to nothing at the Monument. 
Thus in moist Weather when the Marble weeps, 
You`l think it only his Tears reck`ning keeps, 
Who doth for ever to his Thoughts bequeath 
The Legacy of your lamented Death.
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