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107
On the DEATH of my Brother.
A SONNET.
I
Ask me not why the Rose doth fade,Lillies look pale, and Flowers dye;
Question not why the Myrtle shade
Her wonted shadows doth deny.
II
Seek not to know from whence begunThe sadness of the Nightingale:
Nor why the Heliotrope and Sun,
Their constant Amity do fail.
III
The Turtles grief look not upon,Nor reason why the Palm-trees mourn;
When, Widow-like, they're left alone,
Nor Phœnix why her self doth burn.
IV
For since He's dead, which Life did giveTo all these things, which here I name;
They fade, change, wither, cease to live,
Pine and consume into a Flame.
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