For though they each of them his time so spent,
As rais'd unto himself a monument,

With which ambition might rest well content;

Yet their great works, though they can never die,
And are in truth superlatively high,

Are no just scale to take their virtues by;

Because they show not how the Almighty's grace,
By various and more admirable ways,
Brought them to be the organs of his praise.

But what their humble modesty would hide,
And was by any other means denied,
Is by your love and diligence supplied.

Wotton-a nobler soul was never bred!-
You, by your narrative's most even thread,
Through all his labyrinths of life have led;

Through his degrees of honour, and of arts,
Brought him secure from envy's venom'd darts,
Which are still levell'd at the greatest parts;

Through all the employments of his wit and spirit,
Whose great effects these kingdoms still inherit;
The trials then, now trophies of his merit.

Nay, through disgrace, which oft the worthiest have, Through all state tempests, through each wind and wave, And laid him in an honourable grave.

And yours, and the whole world's beloved Donne,

When he a long and wild career had run

To the meridian of his glorious sun;

And being then an object of much ruth,
Led on by vanities, error and youth,

Was long ere he did find the way of truth;

By the same clue, after his youthful swing,
To serve at his God's altar here you bring,
Where once a wanton muse doth anthems sing.

And though by God's most powerful grace alone
His heart was settled in religion:
Yet 'tis by you we know how it was done;

And know, that having crucified vanities,
And fix'd his hope, he clos'd up his own eyes,
And then your friend a saint and preacher dies.

The meek and learned Hooker too, almost
In the Church's ruins overwhelmed and lost,
Is by your pen, recover'd from the dust.

And Herbert;-be whose education,
Manners, and parts, by high applauses blown,
Was deeply tainted by ambition;

And fitted for a court, made that his aim;
At last, without regard to birth or name,
For a poor country cure does all disclaim;

Where, with a soul composed of harmonies,
Like a sweet swan, he warbles as he dies,
His Maker's praise, and his own obsequies.

All this you tell us, with so good success,
That our oblig'd posterity shall profess

To have been your friend, was a great happiness.

And now, when many worthier would be proud
To appear before you, if they were allow'd,
I take up room enough to serve a crowd:

Where, to commend what you have choicely writ, Both my poor testimony and my wit

Are equally invalid and unfit:

Yet this, and much more, is most justly due:
Where what I write as elegant as true,
To the best friend I now or ever knew.

But, my dear friend, 'tis so, that you and I,

By a condition of mortality,

With all this great, and more proud world, must die:

In which estate, I ask no more of fame,

Nor other monument of honour claim,

Than that of your true friend to advance my name.

And if your many merits shall have bred
An abler pen, to write your life when dead;
I think an honester can not be read.

Jan. 17, 1672.

CHARLES COTTON.