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For a silver-crowned head
A durty pillow in Death's bed.
For so deare, so deep a trust,
Sad requitall, thus much dust!
Now though the blow that snatch him hence,
Stopt the mouth of Eloquence:
Though shee be dumbe e're since his death,
Not us'd to speake but in his breath;
Leaving his death vngarnished
Therefore, because hee is dead
Yet if at least shee not denyes,
The sad language of our eyes,
Wee are contented: for then this
Language none more fluent is.
Nothing speakes our griefe so well
As to speak nothing. Come then tell
Thy mind in teares who e're thou be,
That ow'st a name to misery.
Eyes are vocall, teares have tongues,
And there be words not made with lungs ;
Sententious showres : 0 let them fall,
Their cadence is rhetoricall.
Here's a theame will drinke th' expence,
Of all thy watry eloquence.
Weepe then! onely be exprest
Thus much, ‘he's dead:' and weep the rest.

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To them shee yave the first and fairest beame
That waited on her birth : she gave to them
The purest pearles, that wept her evening death ;
The balmy Zephirus got so sweet a breath
By often kissing them. And now begun
Glad Time to ripen Expectation :
The timorous maiden-blossomes on each bough
Peept forth from their first blushes ; so that now
A thousand ruddy hopes smild in each bud, 25
And flatter'd every greedy eye that stood
Fixt in delight, as if already there
Those rare fruits dangled, whence the golden Yeare
His crowne expected : when, (O Fate! 0 Time!
That seldome lett'st a blushing youthfull prime
Hide his hot beames in shade of silver age,
So rare is hoary Vertue) the dire rage
Of a mad storme these bloomy joyes all tore,
Ravisht the maiden blossomis, and downe bore
The trunke. Yet in this ground his pretious root 35
Still lives, which when weake Time shall be pour'd out
Into Eternity, and circular joyes
Dance in an endlesse round, again shall rise
The faire son of an ever-youthfull Spring,
To be a shade for angels while they sing ;

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Meane while who e're thou art that passest here,
O doe thou water it with one kind teare.

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