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Poems

or, A Miscellany of Sonnets, Satyrs, Drollery, Panegyricks, Elegies, &c. At the Instance, and Request of Several Friends, Times, and Occasions, Composed; and now at their command Collected, and Committed to the Press. By the Author, M. Stevenson
 
 

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An Elegy some Years after the Death of his honoured Couzen Mr. R. Cooke.
 

An Elegy some Years after the Death of his honoured Couzen Mr. R. Cooke.

But now, to pump our Posthume Elegies?
Fye, fye; we but blaspheme his Obsequies.
No more, my Muse, for if our noise increase,
His very dust will bind us to the peace:

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Wouldst thou revive his happy Memory?
And make Immortal that which cannot dye?
No, no, Urania; there remains no more,
But to Excuse what we did not before.
Let what is truth, give us this just relief;
We could not write at present for our grief.
Our sighs were deeper than his dusty Bed,
And Fancy from the Face of sorrow fled.
Whilst every heart so sunck beneath its moan,
It might, for heaviness have been his Stone.
Nay now, even now, after so many years,
I drown my Eyes and Paper with my tears.
Of which, a Floud has blinded me so sore,
As his, though cold, and cloz'd, can be no more.
Sleep on dear Dust, although with Head full low;
Our Friend h'as paid that Debt to Nature now:
That You, and I, and all Men living owe.