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Augure me better chance, except dread Jove |
Think it enough for me to have had thy love. |
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On himself. |
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My Fortune and my choice this custome break, |
When we are speechless grown, to make stones speak: |
Though no stone tell thee what I was, yet thou |
In my graves inside seest what thou art now: |
Yet thou art not yet so good, till death us lay |
To ripe and mellow here, we are stuborn Clay. |
Parents make us earth, and souls dignifie |
Us to be glass; here to grow gold we lie; |
Whilst in our souls sin bred and pamper'd is, |
Our souls become worm-eaten carcasses; |
So we our selves miraculously destroy, |
Here bodies with less miracle enjoy |
Such priviledges, enabled here to scale |
Heaven, when the Trumpets ayre shall then exhale. |
Hear this, and mend thy self, and thou mendst me, |
By making me being dead, do good for thee, |
And think me well compos'd, that I could now |
A last-sick hour to syllables allow. |
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Elegie. |
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Madam, |
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That I might make your Cabinet my tomb, |
And for my fame, which I love next my soul, |
Next to my soul provide the happiest room, |
Admit to that place this last funeral scrowl.
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[CW: Others] |