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Elegy funer. |
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Sorrow wch to this house scarse knewe the way [164] |
Is, oh, heyre of it, our all is his pray |
This strange chance claymes strange wondr, and to vs |
Nothing can bee so strange as to weepe thus. |
Tis well his liues lowd speaking workes deserue |
And giue prayse too, our cold tongues could not serue |
Tis well hee kept teares from our eyes before |
That to fitt this deepe ill wee might haue store. |
Ô, if a sweete Bryar climb vp by a Tree |
If to a Paradise that transplanted bee |
Or feld and burnt for holy sacrifice |
Yet that must wither wch by it did rise, |
As wee for him dead. Though no family |
Ere riggd a soule for heauens discouery |
With whome more venturers more boldly dare |
Venture theyr states with him in ioye to share |
Wee loose what all things* lou'd, him, hee gaynes now |
But life by death, wch worst foes would allow |
(If hee could haue foes, in whose practize grew |
All virtues whose names subtill Schoolemen knew.) |
What ease can, hope wee shall see him, beget |
When wee must dye first, and cannot dye yet? |
His Children are his Pictures. Oh they bee |
Pictures of him dead, sencelesse, cold, as hee |
Heere needes no Marble Tombe, since hee is gon |
Hee, and about him, His, ar turnd to stone.
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[CW: Death I___] |