ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES PEMBERTON, KNIGHT, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE
THE 8TH OF SEPTEMBER, 1613.
He was lord mayor of London in the reign of James I., and was a great
benefactor to several charities.
_Vertue._ What Vertue challengeth, is but her right.
_Death._ What Death layes claime to who can contradict?
_Ver._ Vertue, whose power exceeds all other might.
_Dea._ Wher’s Vertue’s power when Death makes all submit?
_Ver._ I gave him life and therefore he is mine.
_Dea._ That life he held no longer than I list.
_Ver._ I made him more than mortall, neere diuine;
_Dea._ How hapt he could not then Death’s stroke resist?
_Ver._ Because (by nature) all are born to dye.
_Dea._ Then thyne own tongue yeelds Death the victory.
_Ver._ No, Death, thou art deceiued, thy enuious stroke
Hath giuen him life immortal ’gainst thy will:
_Dea._ What life can be, but vanished as smoake?
_Ver._ A life that all thy darts can never kill.
_Dea._ Haue I not locked his body in my graue?
_Ver._ That was but dust, and that I pray thee keepe.
_Dea._ That is as much as I desire to haue,
His comely shape in my eternal sleepe.
_Ver._ But wher’s his honorable life, renowne, and fame?
_Dea._ They are but breath, them I resign to thee.
_Ver._ Them I most couet.
_Dea._ ------------ I prefer my claim,
His body mine.
_Ver._ ------------ mine his eternity.
“And so they ceast, Death triumphs o’er his graue,
Virtue o’er that which death can never haue.”
H****t.
_London, June 12, 1827._
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