Elegie on Mris Boulstred — John Donne

Nor will this earth serve him; he sinkes the deepe
Where harmelesse fish monastique silence keepe,
Who (were Death dead) by Roes of living sand,
Might spunge that element, and make it land
He rounds the aire, and breakes the hymnique notes
In birds (Heavens choristers,) organique throats,
Which (if they did not dye might seem to bee
A tenth ranke in the heavenly hierarchie
O strong and long-liv’d death, how cam’st thou in?
And how without creation didst begin?
But thou hast both of captaine mist and fort
As houses fall not, though the king remove,
Bodies of Saints rest for their soules above
Death gets ‘twixt soules and bodies such a place
As sinne insinuates ‘twixt just men and grace,
Both worke a separation, no divorce
Her Soule is gone to usher up her corse,
Which shall be’ almost another soule, for there
Bodies are purer, then best soules are here
Because in her, her virtues did outgoe
Her yeares, would’st thou, O emulous death, do so?
And kill her young to thy losse? must the cost
Of beauty, and wit, apt to doe harme, be lost?
What though found’st her proofe ‘gainst sins of youth?
Oh, every age a diverse sinne issueth
Thou should’st have stay’d, and taken better hold,
Shortly, ambitious; covetous, when old,
She might have prov’d; and such devotion
Might once have stray’d to superstition
If all her virtues must have growne, yet might
Abundant virtue ‘have bred a proud delight