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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

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 practice 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 dissolved 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 passed), And I remember must in tears

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 nevermore appear
Folded within my hemisphere,
Since both thy light and motion
Like a fled star is fallen and gone,
And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish
The earth now interposed is,
Which such a strange eclipse doth make
As ne'er was read in almanac.

I could allow thee for a time To darken me, and my sad clime: Were it a month, or year, or ten, I would thy exile live till then. And all that space my mirth adjourn, So thou wouldst promise to return, And, putting off thy ashy shroud, At length disperse this sable cloud.

But woe is me! the longest date
Too narrow is to calculate
These empty hopes: never shall I
Be so much blest as to descry

A glimpse of thee, till that day come
Which shall the earth to cinders doom,
And a fierce fever must calcine
The body of this world like thine,
(My little world!): that fit of fire
Once off, our bodies shall aspire
To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise,
And view ourselves with clearer eyes
In that calm region where no night
Can hide us from each other's sight.

Meantime thou hast her, Earth: much good May my harm do thee! Since it stood With Heaven's will I might not call Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-lived right and interest In her whom living I loved best. With a most free and bounteous grief I give thee what I could not keep. Be kind to her, and, prithee, look Thou write into thy doomsday book Each parcel of this rarity

Which in thy casket shrined doth lie.

See that thou make thy reckoning straight,
And yield her back again by weight:
For thou must audit on thy trust
Each grain and atom of this dust,

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As thou wilt answer Him that lent,
Not gave thee, my dear monument.

So close the ground, and 'bout her shade
Black curtains draw: my bride is laid.

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted!

My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall overtake:

Till age or grief, or sickness must
Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves, and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there: I will not fail

To meet thee in that hollow vale.

And think not much of my delay;

I am already on the way,

And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee.
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail,
Than when Sleep breathed his drowsy gale.
Thus from the sun my bottom steers,
And my day's compass downward bears:
Nor labor I to stem the tide
Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

"Tis true, with shame and grief I yield;
Thou, like the van, first took'st the field,
And gotten hast the victory,
In thus adventuring to die

Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.
But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And, slow howe'er my marches be,
I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on, And wait my dissolution

With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive
The crime), I am content to live,
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet and never part.

HENRY KING.

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The Dirge of Imogen.

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must
As chimney-sweepers come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great-
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat ;
To thee the reed is as the oak.
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Wirge of Jephthah's Waughter.

SUNG BY THE VIRGINS.

O THOU, the wonder of all dayes! O paragon, and pearl of praise! O virgin-martyr, ever blest

Above the rest

Of all the maiden traine! We come, And bring fresh strewings to thy tombe.

Thus, thus, and thus we compasse round
Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground;
And as we sing thy dirge, we will
The daffodill,

And other flowers, lay upon
The altar of our love, thy stone.

Thou, wonder of all maids, rest here—
Of daughters all, the deerest deere;
The eye of virgins; nay, the queen
Of this smooth green,

And all sweet meades from whence we get
The primrose and the violet.

Too soone, too deere, did Jephthah buy,
By thy sad losse, our liberty;

His was the bond and cov'nant, yet
Thou paid'st the debt;
Lamented maid! he won the day,
But for the conquest thou didst pay.

Thy father brought with him along The olive-branch, and victor's song; He slew the Ammonites, we know— But to thy woe;

And in the purchase of our peace The cure was worse than the disease.

For which obedient zeale of thine
We offer here, before thy shrine,
Our sighs for storax, teares for wine;
And, to make fine

And fresh thy herse-cloth, we will here
Four times bestrew thee every yeere.

Receive, for this thy praise, our tears; Receive this offering of our haires; Receive these christall vials, filled With tears distilled

From teeming eyes; to these we bring, Each maid, her silver filleting,

To guild thy tombe; besides, these caules,
These laces, ribbands, and these faules-
These veiles, wherewith we use to hide
The bashfull bride,
When we conduct her to her groome;
All, all we lay upon thy tombe.

No more, no more, since thou art dead,
Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed;
No more, at yeerly festivalls,
We cowslip balls,

Or chaines of columbines, shall make
For this or that occasion's sake.

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No, no! our maiden pleasures be
Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee;
'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave;
Or if we have

One seed of life left, 'tis to keep

A Lent for thee, to fast and weep.

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,
And make this place all paradise;

May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence
Fat frankincense;

Let balme and cassia send their scent
From out thy maiden monument.

May no wolfe howle, or screech-owle stir

A wing about thy sepulchre ;

No boysterous winds or storms come hither,
To starve or wither

Thy soft sweet earth; but, like a spring,
Love keep it ever flourishing.

May all shie maids, at wonted hours,

Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers;
May virgins, when they come to mourn,
Male incense burn

Upon thine altar; then return,

And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.

ROBERT HERRICK.

And set it round with celandine,
And nodding heads of columbine!
We'll set it round with celandine,
And nodding heads of columbine!
And let the ruddock build his nest
Just above my true-love's breast!

The ruddock he shall build his nest
Just above thy true-love's breast!
And warble his sweet wintry song
O'er our dwelling all day long!

And he shall warble his sweet song
O'er your dwelling all day long.
Now, tender friends, my garments take,
And lay me out for Jesus' sake!

And we will now thy garments take,
And lay thee out for Jesus' sake!
And lay me by my true-love's side,
That I may be a faithful bride!

We'll lay thee by thy true-love's side, That thou may'st be a faithful bride! When I am dead, and buried be, Pray to God in heaven for me! Now thou art dead, we'll bury thee, And pray to God in heaven for thee! Benedicite!

WILLIAM STANLEY ROSCOE.

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