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[VII. Liue not poore bloome]

Liue not poore bloome, but perish

Liue not poore bloome, but perish, Whose Spring frosty Winter blasteth, Other buds fresh Mayes doe cherish, Hyems o're thee his snow casteth, And in wither'd armes thee graspeth, Tyrants, nothing worse you can, Now my liuely body's yoaked, to the dead corps of a man, Thus with loathed burden choked, Lingering death with teares inuoked.