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55

Son. [vii]

[O! It is not to mee bright Lampe of Day]

O! It is not to mee bright Lampe of Day,
That in the East thou shew'st thy rosie Face,
O! it is not to mee thou leau'st that Sea,
And in these azure Lists beginst thy Race.
Thou shin'st not to the Dead in any Place,
And I (dead) from this World am gone away,
Or if I seeme (a Shadow) yet to stay,
It is a while but to bemone my Case.
My Mirth is lost, my Comforts are dismay'd,
And vnto sad Mis-haps their Place doe yeeld;
My Knowledge doth resemble a bloudie field,
Where I my Hopes, and Helps see prostrate layd.
So painefull is Lifes Course which I haue runne,
That I doe wish it neuer had begunne.