Let no prophane, ignoble foot tread here,
This hallowed piece of earth, Dorset lyes there:
A small poor relique of a noble spirit,
Free as the air, and ample as his merit:
A soul refin’d, no proud forgetting lord,
But mindful of mean names, and of his word:
Who lov’d men for his honour, not his ends,
And had the noblest way of getting friends
By loving first, and yet who knew the court,
But understood it better by report
Than practice: he nothing took from thence
But the kings favour for his recompence.
Who, for religion or his countreys good,
Neither his honour valued, nor his blood.
Rich in the worlds opinion, and mens praise,
And full in all we could desire, but days.
He that is warn’d of this, and shall forbear
To vent a sigh for him, or shed a tear,
May he live long scorn’d, and unpitied fall,
And want a mourner at his funeral!