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ELEGIE. I. |
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Fond woman which would'st have thy husband die, |
And yet complain'st of his great jealousie; |
If swolne with poyson, hee lay in'his last bed, |
His body with a sere-barke covered, |
Drawing his breath, as thick and short, as can |
The nimblest crocheting Musitian, |
Ready with loathsome vomiting to spue |
His Soule out of one hell, into a new, |
Made deafe with his poore kindreds howling cries, |
Begging with few feign'd teares, great legacies, |
Thou would'st not weepe, but jolly,'and frolicke bee, |
As a slave, which to morrow should be free, |
Yet weep'st thou, when thou seest him hungerly |
Swallow his owne death, hearts-bane jealousie. |
O give him many thanks, he'is courteous, |
That in suspecting kindly warneth us. |
Wee must not, as wee us'd, flout openly, |
In scoffing ridles, his deformitie; |
Nor at his boord together being satt, |
With words, nor touch, scarce lookes adulterate. |
Nor when he swolne, and pamper'd with great fare |
Sits downe, and snorts, cag'd in his basket chaire, |
Must wee usurpe his owne bed any more, |
Nor kisse and play in his house, as before. |
Now I see many dangers; for it is |
His realme, his castle, and his diocesse. |
But if, as envious men, which would revile
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[CW: Their] |