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The Poems of Thomas Pestell

Edited with an account of his life and work by Hannah Buchan

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To the honourd memorie of his deare mother. Mrs. Kath: Carr.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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46

To the honourd memorie of his deare mother. Mrs. Kath: Carr.

A Virgin faire & pure fowre Lustre's old
A gratious Wife till twyce so many told,
Fiue more she Past in Turtle widowes state
And sawe hir ofspring runne above the rate
Of all those year's. You sweet & happie race
Blest wth the Beauties of hir soule & face,
In prints so Liuely, Louely, bright & cleare,
(As scarce in all the Land the Like appeare.
Come helpe me reare theise trophees of my verse
Vpon your famous granddames, Bel-dam's herse.
Bynd all your browes in Bayes: no teare lett fall!
This is hir tryumph, & not funerall.
Who prowd fowle children in their Image gett
Borne, & conceiu'd in old Originall debt,
Who bloudie rackt Lands, wth poore orphan's curse
Leaue dull vile heyres that meane to make them worse;
Howlings are iust for theise. But you shall wrong
Hir Spottlesse Soule; vnlesse you Lift a Song,
From all your ioyned brests, that may rebound,
Against the starrs till heavên & earth resound.
Whilst hir Imperiall eagle soule out-flies
To take that crowne, beyond those Alpes of skies;
Two crouns of Age & Virtue here she wore,
The Last is Glorie, Lasting Euermore;
Wch Gods owne Holynes putts on: at Sight
Whereof, That Conclaue Sings in high delight.