"Now though the blow that snatcht him hence, Stopt the Mouth of Eloquence, Though she be dumb e'r since his Death, Not us'd to speak but in his Breath; Yet if at least she not denies, The sad Language of our Eyes, We are contented: for then this Language none more fluent is. Nothing speaks our Grief so well As to speak nothing: Come then tell Thy mind in Tears who e'r thou be, That ow'st a Name to Misery: Eyes are Vocal, Tears have Tongues, And there be words not made with Lungs; Sententious showers, O let them fall, Their cadence is Rhetorical. Here's a Theme will drink th' expence Of all thy watry Eloquence; Weep then, onely be exprest Thus much, He's Dead, and Weep the rest."