Death's Duel by John Donne

On the Death of Dr Donne by Edward Hyde, afterwards Earl of Clarendon

I CANNOT blame those men, that knew thee well,
Yet dare not help the world, to ring thy knell
In tuneful elegies; there's not language known
Fit for thy mention, but 'twas first thy own;
The epitaphs thou writ'st, have so bereft
Our tongue of wit, there is not fancy left
Enough to weep thee; what henceforth we see
Of Art or Nature, must result from thee.
There may perchance some busy gathering friend
Steal from thy own works, and that, varied, lend,
Which thou bestow'st on others, to thy hearse,
And so thou shalt live still in thine own verse;
He that shall venture farther, may commit
A pitied error, shew his zeal, not wit.
Fate hath done mankind wrong; virtue may aim
Reward of conscience, never can, of fame,
Since her great trumpet's broke, could only give
Faith to the world, command it to believe;
He then must write, that would define thy parts:
Here lies the best divinity, all the arts.