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Poems

By Thomas Philipott

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On the death of M. Francis Thornhill, slain in a single Duell
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

On the death of M. Francis Thornhill, slain in a single Duell

VVhat stratagems inexorable death
Does muster up to rob us of our breath?
Somtimes he sends a Feaver to take in
Our forts of earth, somtimes the gout, to win
Our ruinous tenements, which being repell'd
And their assaults by strength of nature quell'd,
He straight imploys the sword, petar and gun,
With all the Engines of destruction;
To raze our Citadells of clay, which we
Accomplish'd in the fate of Thornhill see,
Who though his heart and vitals bore about
Vigour enough to keep diseases out:
Yet see how soon the sword had found the art
To cut the cordage that made fast his heart,
And soule, which thence flew heaven-wards, there to be
Indenison'd into eternitie.
For though it swam in a red stream from hence
I'me confident 'twas white with innocence:
But shall his blood, exhale to aire, the earth
Was moistened with, no 'twill produce a birth,
Of od'rous flowers, to whom there shall accrew
(As if they wept for him) a constant dew;
Which on the ruines of his earth shall flow;
And when the wind from the cold North does blow,

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Congeale into a pearly maste, so he
Invested with a shroud of pearle shall be.