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Poems

By Thomas Philipott

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His Epitaph.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

His Epitaph.

Reader, this Tombe is put in trust,
To keep a heap of learned dust,
Which, we dare presume, will shun
The Fate of putrefaction.
For, that salt which did remaine
Cloyster'd up within his braine,
Will so preserve his Reliques, they
Shall never languish, or decay:
However, let our eyes returne
Streams of teares unto his urne:
For, those his Reliques sure will free
From all corruptibilitie:
Or els, contracting into one,
Will grow another Helicon.
Nor have we any cause to feare,
That we shall want the Muses there:
For, when he died, they did become
Themselves the Inmates to his tombe.