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Venture their states, with him in joy to share |
Wee lose what all friends lov'd, him, he gaines now |
But life by death, which worst foes would allow, |
If hee could have foes, in whose practise grew |
All vertues, whose names subtile Schoolmen knew; |
What ease, can hope that wee shall see'him, beget, |
When wee must die first, and cannot dye yet? |
His children are his pictures, Oh they bee |
Pictures of him dead, senselesse, cold as he, |
Here needs no marble Tombe, since hee is gone, |
He, and about him, his, are turn'd to stone. |
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Elegie VII. |
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Oh, let mee not serve so, as those men serve |
Whom honours smoakes at once fatten and sterve; |
Poorely enrich't with great mens words or lookes; |
Nor so write my name in thy loving bookes |
As those Idolatrous flatterers, which still |
Their Princes stiles, which many Realmes fulfill |
Whence they no tribute have, and where no sway. |
Such services I offer as shall pay |
Themselves, I hate dead names: Oh then let mee |
Favorite in Ordinary, or no favorite bee. |
When my Soule was in her owne body sheath'd, |
Nor yet by oathes betroth'd, nor kisses breath'd |
Into my Purgatory, faithlesse thee,
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[CW: Thy] |