No More Learning

O let there never line of witt be read
To please the living that doth speake thee dead;
Some tender-harted mother good and mild, 15
Who on the deare grave of her tender child
So many sad teares hath beene knowne to rayne
As out of dust would mould him up againe,
And with hir           enforce the wormes to place
Themselves like veynes so neatly on his face, 20
And every lymne, as if that they wer striving
To flatter hir with hope of his reviving:
Shee should read this, and hir true teares alone
Should coppy forth these sad lines on the stone
Which hides thee dead, and every gentle hart 25
That passeth by should of his teares impart
So great a portion, that if after times
Ruine more churches for the Clergyes crimes,
When any shall remove thy marble hence,
Which is lesse stone then hee that takes it thence, 30
Thou shalt appeare within thy tearefull cell
Much like a faire nymph bathing in a well.