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XXXIII. To The Same [Sir John Roe].

Ile not offend thee with a vaine teare more,
Glad-mention'd Roe: thou art but gone before,
Whither the world must follow. And I, now,
Breathe to expect my when, and make my how.
Which if most gracious heaven grant like thine,
Who wets my grave, can be no friend of mine.