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Blisters with pride swell’d, which through's flesh
Like rose-buds, stuck i'th' lilly-skin about.
Thus fades the oak i'th'sprig, i'th'blade the corn; Thus without young, this Phænix dies, new-born. Must then old three-legg'd grey-beards with their
gout, Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three ages out? Time's offals, only fit for th' hospital ! Or to hang antiquaries rooms withal ! Must drunkards, lechers, spent with sinning, live With such helps as broths, poffets, physic give ? None live, but such as should die ? shall we meet With none but ghostly fathers in the street ? Grief makes me rail; forrow will force its
way; And show’rs of tears' tempestuous sighs best lay, The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes Will weep out lasting streams of elegies.
But thou, O virgin-widow, left alone, Now thy beloved, heaven-ravilh'd spouse is gone, Whose skilful fire in vain strove to apply Med’cines, when thy balm was no remedy, With
greater than platonic love, O wed His soul, tho not his body, to thy bed : Let that make thee a mother ; bring thou forth Th' ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth Transcribe th’original in new copies; give Hastings o'th' better part: fo shall he live
In's nobler half; and the great grandfire be
On the Death of
Written after his FUNERAL.
Who would before have borne him to the sky, Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past,
Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly.
A who would before have borinehimiethetky,
Join'd with the loud applause of public voice ; Since heaven, what praise we offer to his name, Hath render'd too authentic by its choice,
Since they, whose muses have the highest flown,
Such monuments as we can build to raise ;
To draw a fame so truly circular ?
For he was great ere fortune made him so:
Made him but greater seem, not greater grow,