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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.
A Funerall Elegie.
'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?

[CW: But]