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Eleg: 12.a|
Here take my picture, though I bid farwell [f. 21]
Thyne in my hart, wher my Soule dwells shall dwell.
T'is like me now, but I dead, t'wilbe more
When we are shadows bothe, then t'was before.
When weatherbeaten I come back; my hand
Perchance wt rude Oares torne, or Suns beams tand,
My face & breast of hayre cloth, and my head
Wt Cares rash sodain horines orespred,
My body a sack of bones, broken within
And powder blew staines scatterd on my skin,
If riuall fooles taxe thee to'haue lov'd a man
So foule & course, as Oh I may seeme than
This shall say what I was; and thou shalt say,
Do his hurts reache mee? doth my worthe decay?
Or do they reach his iudging mind, yt hee
Should like & love les, what he did love to see?
That wch in him was fayre or deliate
Was but ye Milke wch in Loves childish State
Did nourse it: Who now is growne strong inough
To feede on yt wch to disvsd tasts seems tough.
Eleg: 13.a
Sorrow, who to this house, scarse knew ye way
Is, Oh, heire of it, Or all is his pray.
This strange chance claymes strange Wonder; & to vs
Nothing can be so strange, as to weepe thus.
Tis well his lifes lowd speaking works deserve
And giue prayse to, or cold tongs could not serve.
Tis well he kept teares frō or eyes before
That to fitt this deepe ill we might haue store.
Oh yf a sweete bryer clymbe vp by a tree
If to a Paradise yt transplanted bee
Or felld and burnt for holy sacrifice
Yet yt must wither wch by it did rise;
As we for him dead: Though no family
Ere riggd a soule for heauens discouery
Wt whom more Venturers more boldly dare
Venter their states wth him in ioy to share.