An Epitaph on Doctor Donne, Dean of St. Paul's Poem by Richard Corbet
He that would write an epitaph for thee,
And do it well, must first begin to be
Such as thou wert; for none can truly know
Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath lived so.
He must have wit to spare, and to hurl down;
Enough to keep the gallants of the town.
He must have learning plenty; both the laws,
Civil and common, to judge any cause;
Divinity, great store above the rest,
Not of the last edition, but the best.
He must have language, travel, all the arts,
Judgment to use, or else he want thy parts.
He must have friends the highest, able to do,
Such as Maecenas, and Augustus too.
He must have such a sickness, such a death,
Or else his vain descriptions come beneath.
Who then shall write an epitaph for thee,
He must be dead first! Let it alone, for me.
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Comments about this poem (An Epitaph on Doctor Donne, Dean of St. Paul's by Richard Corbet )
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(16 April 1918 – 27 February 2002)
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- On the Ning Nang Nong, Spike Milligan
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- 'Hope' is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson
- Why so pale and wan, fond lover?, Sir John Suckling