If I were lost in misery What was it to Thy heaven and thee? What was it to Thy precious blood If my foul heart called for a flood? What if my faithl… - Richard Crashaw

’Tis love, not years or limbs that can
Make the martyr, or the man.

Now though the blow that snatcht him hence,
Stopt the Mouth of Eloquence,
Though she be dumb e'r since his Death,
Not us'd to speak but in his Breath;
Yet if at least she not denies,
The sad Language of our Eyes,
We are contented: for then this
Language none more fluent is.
Nothing speaks our Grief so well
As to speak nothing: Come then tell
Thy mind in Tears who e'r thou be,
That ow'st a Name to Misery:
Eyes are Vocal, Tears have Tongues,
And there be words not made with Lungs;
Sententious showers, O let them fall,
Their cadence is Rhetorical.
Here's a Theme will drink th' expence
Of all thy watry Eloquence;
Weep then, onely be exprest
Thus much, He's Dead, and Weep the rest.

A happy soul, that all the way
To heaven hath a summer’s day.