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Poem	The first day of this month the last hath bin To that deare soule. March never did come in So lyonlike as now: our lives are made As fickle as the weather or the shade. March dust growes plenty now, while wasting fate Strike heare to dust, well worth the proverbs rate. I could be angry with the fates that they This man of men so soone have stole away. Meane they a kingdome to undoe, or make The universe a Cripple while they take From us so cheife a part, whose art knew how To make a man a man, nor would allow Nature an Heteroclite still to remaine Irregular, but with a jugling paine Deceive men of their greife, and make them know That he could cure more than ere chance or foe Dare to instring. Death now growes politique: While Otton liv'd herselfe was weake and sicke For want of food, therefore at him she aimde Who bar'd her of her purpose. All is maimde, All's out of joint, for in this fatall crosse Behold Death's triumph and our fatall losse.
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