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Elegie on Mris Boulstred. |
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Death I recant, and say, unsaid by mee |
What ere hath slip'd, that might diminish thee. |
Spirituall treason, atheisme 'tis, to say, |
That any can thy Summons disobey. |
Th'earths face is but thy Table; there are set |
Plants, cattell, men, dishes for Death to eate. |
In a rude hunger now hee millions drawes |
Into his bloody, or plaguy, or sterv'd jawes. |
Now hee will seeme to spare, and doth more wast, |
Eating the best first, well preserv'd to last. |
Now wantonly he spoiles, and eates us not, |
But breakes off friends, and lets us peecemeale rot. |
Nor will this earth serve him; he sinkes the deepe |
Where harmelesse fish monastique silence keepe. |
Who (were Death dead) by Roes of living sand, |
Might spunge that element, and make it land. |
He rounds the aire, and breakes the hymnique notes |
In birds, Heavens choristers, organique throats, |
Which (if they did not dye) might seeme to bee |
A tenth ranke in the heavenly hierarchie. |
O strong and long-liv'd death, how cam'st thou in? |
And how without Creation didst begin? |
Thou hast, and shalt see dead, before thou dyest, |
All the foure Monarchies, and Antichrist. |
How could I thinke thee nothing, that see now |
In all this All, nothing else is, but thou.
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[CW: Our] |