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Poems Divine, and Humane

By Thomas Beedome

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Epigram 11. To the worthy honoured, Sir Henry Wootten Knight.
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Epigram 11. To the worthy honoured, Sir Henry Wootten Knight.

Is there eternity? or is there fame?
Rests there a glory to a vertuous name?
Is there a wreath for Poets? is there blisse
To a condigne discent? yes, sure there is.
Can man (whose soule tis true, is active) rise
To such a height, not here, but when hee dyes?
Nay further is it in the might of man
To acquire all this? yes, by defect he can.
Then 'tis some joy to know it, but suppose
Some were so stupid that they durst oppose
This tenet, nay, and further would imply,
That 'tis in posse for best wits to die.
How when thy clay shall sleepe, shall thy just fame
Brand these erroneous? and convince with shame
Their then griev'd soules, to thinke thy losse hath lent
To their dull Tribe that deare experiment.
Whil'st thou when Earth shall mourne to misse thee here,
Above to Monarchs, shalt become a Peere,
And make the next age blush to thinke that shee
Retaines no equall to thy wit or thee.