82 lines
2.7 KiB
Plaintext
82 lines
2.7 KiB
Plaintext
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1645
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AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER
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by John Milton
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This rich Marble doth enterr
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The honour'd Wife of Winchester,
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A Vicounts daughter, an Earls heir,
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Besides what her vertues fair
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Added to her noble birth,
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More then she could own from Earth.
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Summers three times eight save one
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She had told, alas too soon,
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After so short time of breath,
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To house with darknes, and with death.
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Yet had the number of her days
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Bin as compleat as was her praise,
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Nature and fate had had no strife
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In giving limit to her life.
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Her high birth, and her graces sweet,
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Quickly found a lover meet;
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The Virgin quire for her request
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The God that sits at marriage feast;
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He at their invoking came
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But with a scarce-wel-lighted flame;
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And in his Garland as he stood,
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Ye might discern a Cipress bud.
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Once had the early Matrons run
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To greet her of a lovely son,
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And now with second hope she goes,
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And calls Lucina to her throws;
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But whether by mischance or blame
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Atropos for Lucina came;
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And with remorsles cruelty,
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Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree:
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The haples Babe before his birth
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Had burial, yet not laid in earth,
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And the languisht Mothers Womb
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Was not long a living Tomb.
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So have I seen som tender slip
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Sav'd with care from Winters nip,
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The pride of her carnation train,
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Pluck't up by som unheedy swain,
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Who onely thought to crop the flowr
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New shot up from vernall showr;
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But the fair blossom hangs the head
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Side-ways as on a dying bed,
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And those Pearls of dew she wears,
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Prove to be presaging tears
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Which the sad morn had let fall
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On her hast'ning funerall.
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Gentle Lady may thy grave
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Peace and quiet ever have;
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After this thy travail sore
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Sweet rest sease thee evermore,
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That to give the world encrease,
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Shortned hast thy own lives lease;
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Here besides the sorrowing
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That thy noble House doth bring,
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Here be tears of perfect moan
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Weept for thee in Helicon,
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And som Flowers, and som Bays,
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For thy Hears to strew the ways,
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Sent thee from the banks of Came,
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Devoted to thy vertuous name;
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Whilst thou bright Saint high sit'st in glory,
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Next her much like to thee in story,
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That fair Syrian Shepherdess,
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Who after yeers of barrennes,
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The highly favour'd Joseph bore
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To him that serv'd for her before,
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And at her next birth much like thee,
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Through pangs fled to felicity,
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Far within the boosom bright
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Of blazing Majesty and Light,
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There with thee, new welcom Saint,
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Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,
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With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
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No Marchioness, but now a Queen.
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-THE END-
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