…from the quills of the dead white poets
Ben Jonson (1573 – 1637)
Consider this small dust, here in the glass
By atoms mov’d:
Could you believe that this the body was
Of one that lov’d;
And in his mistress’ flame playing like a fly,
Was turned to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life unblest,
To have’t exprest,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.