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Such an opinion; in due measure, made |
Me this great office boldly to invade: |
Nor could incomprehensiblenesse deterre |
Me, from thus trying to imprison her; |
Which when I saw that a strict grave could doe, |
I saw not why verse might not doe so too. |
Verse hath a middle nature, heaven keepes Soules, |
The Grave keepes bodies, Verse the Fame enroules. |
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A Funerall Elegie. |
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'Tis losse to trust a Tombe with such a guest, |
Or to confine her in a marble chest, |
Alas, what's Marble, Ieat, or Porphyrie, |
Priz'd with the Chrysolite of either eye, |
Or with those Pearles, and Rubies, which she was: |
Ioyne the two Indies in one Tombe, 'tis glasse; |
And so is all to her materials, |
Though every inch were ten Escurials; |
Yet shee's demolish'd: can we keepe her then |
In workes of hands, or of the wits of men? |
Can these memorials, ragges of paper, give |
Life to that name, by which name they must live? |
Sickly, alas, short-liv'd, Abortive bee |
Those carcasse verses, whose soule is not she, |
And can she, who no longer would be shee, |
Being such a Tabernacle stoope to bee |
In paper wrapt; or when shee would not lie |
In such an house, dwell in an Elegie?
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[CW: But] |