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ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHE-
RINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND,

When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never,
Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load

Of death, called life; which us from life doth sever.

Thy works and alms, and all thy good endeavour,
Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod,
Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever.

Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best,
Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams
And azure wings, that up they flew so drest,
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes
Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest,
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

John Milton.

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ΙΟ

CXVII 1

AN EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND WIFE, WHO DIED AND WERE BURIED TOGETHER.

To these, whom death again did wed,
This grave's their second marriage-bed;
For though the hand of Fate could force
'Twixt soul and body a divorce,

It could not sunder man and wife,
'Cause they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep;
Peace, the lovers are asleep :
They (sweet turtles) folded lie

In the last knot that love could tie.

And though they lie as they were dead,
Their pillow stone, their sheets of lead;
(Pillow hard, and sheets not warm)
Love made the bed, they'll take no harm.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,

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Till this stormy night be gone,

And the eternal morrow dawn;

Then the curtains will be drawn,

And they wake into that light,
Whose day shall never die in night.

CXVIII

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Richard Crashaw.

ЕРІТАРН.

Here lies a piece of Christ; a star in dust;

A vein of gold; a china dish that must

Be used in heaven, when God shall feast the just.

Robert Wild.

CXIX

EPITAPH ON COMPANIONS LEFT BEHIND IN THE NORTHERN SEAS.

I were unkind unless that I did shed,

Before I part, some tears upon our dead:
And when my eyes be dry, I will not cease
In heart to pray their bones may rest in peace:
Their better parts (good souls) I know were given
With an intent they should return to heaven:
Their lives they spent to the last drop of blood,
Seeking God's glory and their country's good.
And as a valiant soldier rather dies,
Than yields his courage to his enemies;

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And stops their way with his hewed flesh, when death
Hath quite deprived him of his strength and breath;
So have they spent themselves; and here they lie,
A famous mark of our discovery.

We that survive, perchance may end our days

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In some employment meriting no praise;

And in a dung-hill rot, when no man names

The memory of us, but to our shames.

They have outlived this fear, and their brave ends
Will ever be an honour to their friends.

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Why drop you so, mine eyes? Nay rather pour

My sad departure in a solemn shower.

The winter's cold, that lately froze our blood,

Now were it so extreme, might do this good,

As make these tears bright pearls, which I would lay 25
Tombed safely with you till doom's fatal day;

That in this solitary place, where none'
Will ever come to breathe a sigh or groan,
Some remnant might be extant of the true
And faithful love I ever tendered you.

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Oh! rest in peace, dear friends, and, let it be
No pride to say, the sometime part of me.
What pain and anguish doth afflict the head,
The heart, and stomach, when the limbs are dead;
So grieved, I kiss your graves, and vow to die,
A foster-father to your memory.

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Thomas James.

CXX

'EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS.

The Lady Mary Villiers lies

Under this stone: with weeping eyes
The parents that first gave her birth,
And their sad friends, laid her in earth.

If any of them, reader, were
Known unto thee, shed a tear:
Or if thyself possess a gem,

As dear to thee as this to them,
Though a stranger to this place,

Bewail in their's thine own hard case;
For thou perhaps at thy return

Mayst find thy darling in an urn.

CXXI

Thomas Carew.

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EXEQUY ON HIS WIFE,

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint,

Instead of dirges this complaint;

And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse,

Receive a strew of weeping verse

From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see 5

Quite melted into tears for thee.

Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,

My task hath been to meditate

On thee, on thee: thou art the book,

The library whereon I look,

Though almost blind. For thee, loved clay,

I languish out, not live, the day,

Using no other exercise

But what I practise with mine eyes:

By which wet glasses I find out

How lazily time creeps about

To one that mourns; this, only this,
My exercise and business is:
So I compute the weary hours
With sighs dissolvèd into showers.
Nor wonder if my time go thus
Backward and most preposterous;
Thou hast benighted me; thy set
This eve of blackness did beget,
Who wast my day (though overcast
Before thou hadst thy noontide past),
And I remember must in tears,

IO

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Thou scarce hadst seen so many years
As day tells hours. By thy clear sun
My love and fortune first did run;
But thou wilt never more appear
Folded within my hemisphere,
Since both thy light and motion,

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Like a fled star, is fall'n and gone,

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