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Poem	Take, greedy death, a body here entomd That by a thousand stroakes was made one wound, Where all thy shafts were stuck with fatall ayme Untill a quiver this thy marke became, Had C?sar fifty wounds to let in thee Because a troop of men might seeme to bee Comprised in that great Spirit, this had more Whose deaths were equalld with the fruitfull store Of hopefull vertues, though each wound did reach The very heart, yet none could make a breach Into his soule, a soule more fully drest With vertuous gemmes than was his body prest With hatefull spotts, and therefore every scarr When death itselfe is dead shall be a starre.
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