Poor vaunting Earth, gloss'd with uncertain Pride,
That liv'd in Pomp, yet worse than others dy'd:
Who shall blow forth a Trumpet to thy praise?
Or call thy sable Actions shining Rayes?
Such Lights as those blaze forth the vertued dead,
And make them live, though they are buried.
Thou'st gone, and to thy memory let be said,
There lies that Oliver which of old betray'd
His King and Master, and after did assume,
With swelling Pride, to govern in his room.
Here I'le rest satisfied, Scriptures expound to me,
Tophet was made for such Supremacy.