[Sidenote: The tombe of M. T. Cicero.]

Un nuage confus se répand sùr ma vuë, Je nentens plus, je tombe en de douces langueurs; Et pâle, sans haleine, interdite, esperduë, Un frisson me saisit, je tremble, je me meurs.

Heaps wretched leaves, half tombed in ghastly snow; Bring back the mother-heaven of orphans lone, The brother's and the sister's faithfulness; Bring forth the kingdom of the Son of Man.

By that same river lurking under greene, Eftsoones* he gins to fashion forth a place, 650 And, squaring it in compasse well beseene**, There plotteth out a tombe by measured space: His yron-headed spade tho making cleene, To dig up sods out of the flowrie grasse, His worke he shortly to good purpose brought, 655 Like as he had conceiv'd it in his thought.

The ashes of a mightie emperour: Upon foure corners of the base were pight*, To beare the frame, foure great lyons of gold; A worthy tombe for such a worthy wight.

Who now shall pay thy Tombe with such a Verse As thou that Ladies didst, faire Rutlands Herse? A Monument that will then lasting be, When all her Marble is more dust than she.