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ELEGIES. |
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Elegie I. |
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Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die, |
And yet complain'st of his great jealousie: |
If swoln with poyson, he lay in'his last bed, |
His body with a sere-cloth covered, |
Drawing his breath, as thick and short as can |
The nimblest crocheting Musician, |
Ready with loathsom vomiting to spue |
His soul out of one hell into a new, |
Made deaf with his poor Kindreds howling cries, |
Begging with few feign'd tears, great legacies, |
Thou would'st not weep, but jolly' and frolick be, |
As a slave, which too morrow should be free, |
Yet weep'st thou, when thou seest him hungerly |
Swallow his own death, hearts-bane jealousie. |
O give him many thanks, he's courteous |
That in suspecting kindly warneth us, |
We must not, as we us'd, flout openly, |
In scoffing riddles his deformity: |
Nor, at his boord together being sat, |
With words, nor touch, scarce looks adulterate. |
Nor when he swoln, and pamper'd with high fare |
Sits down and snorts, cag'd in his basket chair, |
Must we usurp his own bed any more, |
Nor kiss and play in his house as before.*
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[CW: Now] |