His favourite haunts were the Mermaid, and the Falcon Tavern, Southwark. He was engaged in constant squabbles with his contemporaries, and died at last, in 1637, in miserably poor circumstances. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, under a square tablet, where one of his admirers afterwards inscribed the words,
Of his powers as a dramatist we need not speak, but present our readers with some rough and racy specimens of his poetry.
Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; Death! ere thou hast slain another, Learn'd and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee!
Sitting, and ready to be drawn, What make these velvets, silks, and lawn, Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace, Where every limb takes like a face?
Send these suspected helps to aid Some form defective, or decay'd; This beauty, without falsehood fair, Needs nought to clothe it but the air.
Yet something to the painter's view, Were fitly interposed; so new, He shall, if he can understand, Work by my fancy, with his hand.
Draw first a cloud, all save her neck, And, out of that, make day to break; Till like her face it do appear, And men may think all light rose there.
Then let the beams of that disperse The cloud, and show the universe; But at such distance, as the eye May rather yet adore, than spy.