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Henry King - AN ELEGY Upon the L. Bishop of London John King
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Sad Relick of a blessed Soul! whose trust 
We sealed up in this religious dust. 
O do not thy low Exequies suspect 
As the cheap arguments of our neglect. 
`Twas a commanded duty that thy grave 
As little pride as thou thy self should have. 
Therefore thy covering is an humble stone, 
And but a word for thy inscription. 
When those that in the same earth neighbour thee, 
Have each his Chronicle and Pedigree: 
They have their waving pennons and their flagges, 
(Of Matches and Alliance formal bragges.) 
VVhen thou (although from Ancestors thou came 
Old as the Heptarchy, great as thy Name) 
Sleep`st there inshrin`d in thy admired parts, 
And hast no Heraldry but thy deserts. 
Yet let not Them their prouder Marbles boast, 
For They rest with less honour, though more cost. 
Go, search the world, and with your Mattocks wound 
The groaning bosom of the patient ground: 
Digge from the hidden veins of her dark womb 
All that is rare and precious for a tomb: 
Yet when much treasure, and more time is spent 
You must grant His the nobler Monument. 
Whose Faith stands ore Him for a Hearse, and hath 
The Resurrection for His Epitaph.
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