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Epitaph
Madam.
That I might make your Cabinett my tombe [f. 93]
And for my fame, wch I love next my soule
Next to my soule provide the happiest roome
Admitt to yt place this last farewell scroule,
O then by testament give legacies; But I
Dying, of yo,w doe begge a legacie.|
Omnibus.|
My fortune, and my Ioyce this Custome breake
When we are speechles growne, to make stones speake,
Though noe stone tell thee what I was, yett thou
In my graues inside see, what thou art now,
Yett thou art not yett so good; Till vs death lay
To ripe and mellow here, we are stubborne clay,
Parents make vs earth: And soules dignify
Vs to be glass, Here to grow gold, we lye;
Whilest in our soules, sinne bred and pampred is,
Our soules become wormeaten Carkases.
So we our selves miraculously destroy,
Here bodies w.th less miracle enjoy
Such priviledges; enabled here to scale
Heaven, when the Trumpets Ayre shall thē exhale

[CW: Heare]