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Elegie on the L.C. |
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Sorrow, who to this house scarce knew the way: |
Is, oh, heire of it, our All is his prey,. |
This strange chance claims strange wonder, & to us |
Nothing can be so strange, as to weepe thus; |
'Tis well his lifes loud speaking workes deserve, |
And give praise too, our cold tÅgues could not serve: |
'Tis well, he kept teares from our eyes before, |
That to fit this deepe ill, we might have store. |
Oh, if a sweet bryar, climbe up by'a tree, |
If to a paradise that transplanted bee, |
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 soule for heavens discoverie |
With whom more Venturers more boldly dare |
Venture their states, with him in joy to share, |
We lose what all friends lov'd, him; he gaines now |
But life by death, which worst foes would allow, |
If he could have foes, in whose practice grew |
All vertues, whose name subtle Schoolemen knew; |
What ease, can hope that we shall see'him, beget, |
When we must die first, and cannot die yet? |
His children are his pictures, Oh they bee |
Pictures of him dead, senselesse, cold as he, |
Here needs no marble Tombe, since he is gone, |
He, and about him, his, are turn'd to stone. |
The end of Funerall Elegies.
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[CW: LETTERS.] |