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Elegie on the L.C.
Sorrow, who to this house scarce knew the way:
Is, oh, heire of it, our All is his prey,.
This strange chance claims strange wonder, & to us
Nothing can be so strange, as to weepe thus;
'Tis well his lifes loud speaking workes deserve,
And give praise too, our cold tōgues could not serve:
'Tis well, he kept teares from our eyes before,
That to fit this deepe ill, we might have store.
Oh, if a sweet bryar, climbe up by'a tree,
If to a paradise that transplanted bee,
Or fell'd, and burnt for holy sacrifice,
Yet, that must wither, which by it did rise,
As we for him dead: though no family
Ere rigg'd a soule for heavens discoverie
With whom more Venturers more boldly dare
Venture their states, with him in joy to share,
We lose what all friends lov'd, him; he gaines now
But life by death, which worst foes would allow,
If he could have foes, in whose practice grew
All vertues, whose name subtle Schoolemen knew;
What ease, can hope that we shall see'him, beget,
When we must die first, and cannot die yet?
His children are his pictures, Oh they bee
Pictures of him dead, senselesse, cold as he,
Here needs no marble Tombe, since he is gone,
He, and about him, his, are turn'd to stone.
The end of Funerall Elegies.

[CW: LETTERS.]