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Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers;
'Bove all, nothing within that lours;
Can make Day's forehead bright
In her whole frame
Have Nature all the name,
Art and Ornament the shame!
Picture and Poesy:
Her counsel her own virtue be.
I wish her store
Of worth may leave her poor
Now if Time knows
That Her, whose radiant brows
Her whose just bays
My future hopes can raise
A trophy to her present praise,
Her that dares be
What these lines wish to see :
Love, brave Virtue's younger Brother,
Ah! my heart, is that the way?
Are these the beams that rule thy day?
Thou know'st a face, in whose each look,
If those sharp rays, putting on
Points of death, bid Love be gone,
But if her milder influence move,
Though every diamond in Jove's crown
Her eye a strong appeal can give,
O if Love shall live, O, where
In her breast, or in her breath,
Or if Love shall die, O, where,
While Love shall thus entombed lie,
Upon the Death of a Gentleman.
Faithless and fond Mortality!
Who will ever credit thee?
Fond and faithless thing! that thus,
In our best hopes beguilest us.
For life by volumes lengthenéd,
A line or two to speak him dead.
The sullen cypress o'er his hearse.
Sad requital, thus much dust!
Now though the blow that snatch him hence
Stopp'd the mouth of Eloquence,
Though she be dumb e'er since his death,
Yet if at least she not denies
The sad language of our eyes,
Thy mind in tears, whoe'er thou be
> Eyes are vocal, tears have tongues,
And there be words not made with lungs ;
Sententious showers, O, let them fall,
Their cadence is rhetorical.
Here's a theme will drink th' expense
Of all thy watery eloquence;
Weep then, only be exprest
Thus much: He's dead; and weep the rest.