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'Tis well, his lifes loud speaking works deserve, |
And give praise too, our cold tongues could not serve: |
'Tis well, he kept tears from our eyes before, |
That to fit this deep ill, we might have store. |
Oh, if a sweet-bryer climb up by a tree, |
If to a paradise that transplanted be, |
Or fell'd, and burnt for holy sacrifice, |
yet, that must wither, which by it did rise, |
As we for him dead: though no family |
'Ere rigg'd a soul for heavens discovery |
With whom more Venturers more boldly dare |
Venture their states, with him in joy to share, |
We loose what all friends lov'd, him, he gains now |
But life by death, which worst foes would allow, |
If he could have foes, in whose practise grew |
All vertues, whose name subtle School-men knew; |
What ease, can hope that we shall see him, beget, |
When we must dy first, and cannot dy yet? |
His children are his pictures, Oh they be |
Pictures of him dead, sensless, cold as he. |
Here needs no marble tomb, since he is gone, |
He, and about him, his, are turn'd to stone. |
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Upon Mr. Thomas Coryats Crudities. |
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Oh to what height will love of greatness drive |
Thy learned spirit, Sesqui-superlative? |
Venice vast lake thou hast seen, and wouldst seek than, |
Some vaster thing, and found'st a Courtizan. |
That in-land Sea, having discovered well, |
A Cellar gulf, where one might sail to hell
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[CW: From] |