Ben Jonson (1572–1637)

’TWERE time that I died too, now she is dead,

Who was my Muse, and life of all I said;

The spirit that I wrote with, and conceived

All that was good or great, in me she weaved….

Thou hast no more blows, Fate, to drive at one:

What ’s left a poet, when his Muse is gone?…

Indeed, she is not dead! but laid to sleep

In earth, till the last trump awake the sheep

And goats together, whither they must come

To hear their Judge, and His eternal doom….

And she doth know, out of the shade of death,

What ’tis to enjoy an everlasting breath!

To have her captived spirit freed from flesh,

And on her innocence, a garment fresh

And white, as that, put on: and in her hand

With boughs of palm, a crownèd victrice stand!…

She was in one a many parts of life;

A tender mother, a discreeter wife,

A solemn mistress, and so good a friend,

So charitable, to religious end

In all her petite actions, so devote,

As her whole life was now become one note

Of piety, and private holiness.

She spent more time in tears herself to dress

For her devotions, and those sad essays

Of sorrow, than all pomp of gaudy days;

And came forth ever cheered, with the rod

Of divine comfort, when she had talked with God.