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Epitaph |
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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.| |
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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
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[CW: Heare] |