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A vvife, not ready made, but bespoken

by Dicus the Batchelor, and made up for him by his fellow Shepheard Tityrus. In four Pastorall Eglogues. The second Edition: Wherein are some things added but nothing amended [by Robert Aylett]

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The second Elegie. What many ancient Histories relate

What many ancient Histories relate
Of Turtles constant love unto their Mate,
She did exemplifie, and plainly prove,
There is no life in living, but in Love.
The misse whereof made her so much deplore
Her Turtles losse, who only went before:
Whom willing she had followed to the Tomb,
But for the Treasure left her in the Womb,
Which had it perished by such a crosse,
The world at once had suffer'd too much losse.
Now, like another Phenix of his seed,
She first another like her self doth breed.
Long didst thou look, and longing wish to move
Up to thy Loadstarre, which thou eyd'st above,
But couldst not rise so high, till thou wert light,
Then up to Heav'n to him thou tak'st thy flight,
As pure Steel needle ardently doth move
To Load-stone, wherewithall it is in love.
Why should'st thou thus go out before thy date,
And leave us to bewail thine early Fate?
That all our gain such Vertues to have known,
Turns losse so soon to see them from us flown:
As Vines best Clusters soonest off are pull'd,
And purest Gold from out the drosse is cull'd;
So oft the choisest Mortals in their prime,
May seem hence snatch'd away before their time.
But such fair Clusters on Heav'ns board are served,
The Gold to bear Gods image is preserved.
We here our sorrows breathe out to be read,
That she in them may live, when we are dead,
Who living well deserv'd she might die never,
And by her dying here, to live for ever.
Though both were short and sudden, her example
In Life and Death is as a Volume ample,

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Where all may reade aright to live and die,
And follow her to true felicity.
But why speak I of Death? her Bodies frame
Is only turn'd to dust, her vertues fame
Like fumes of burning Cedar doth ascend,
And savour sweetest in her latter end.
Ay let her blessed memory remain,
To see if Wives hereafter can attain
To her perfection: And these sabled Rimes
Be paterns for good Wives in following times.
Thrice happy they that lay Corruption down,
To gain that rich incorruptible Crown,
Which them doth more assuredly attend,
Who like her live, and dying like her end.
And let one Tomb their ashes here contain,
Who liv'd and lov'd as sure to meet again.
They in the fair and in the stormy weather,
Do fly, cry, die, and lie together.
Our Daies are likened to a Tale that's told.
Which long and tedious grow as men grow old,
The yonger shorter tell: If Death once strike,
The long and shorter Tales close both alike.
I care not whether long or short I tell,
So I can hit it right and end it well.