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An Elegie upon the incomparable Dr DONNE.
ALl is not well when such a one as I
Dare peepe abroad, and write an Elegie;
When smaller Starres appeare, and give their light,
Phoebus is gone to bed: Were it not night,
And the world witlesse now that DONNE is dead,
You sooner should have broke, then seene my head.
Dead did I say? Forgive this Injury
I doe him, and his worthes Infinity,
To say he is but dead; I dare averre
It better may be term'd a Massacre,
Then Sleepe or Death; See how the Muses mourne
Upon their oaten Reeds, and from his Vrne
Threaten the World with this Calamity,
They shall have Ballads, but no Poetry.
Language lyes speechlesse; and Divinity,
Lost such a Trump as even to Extasie
Could charme the Soule, and had an Influence
To teach best judgements, and please dullest Sense.
The Court, the Church, the Vniversitie,
Lost Chaplaine, Deane, and Doctor, All these, Three.