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Poems, and phancies

written By the Thrice Noble, Illustrious, And Excellent Princess The Lady Marchioness of Newcastle [i.e. Margaret Cavendish]. The Second Impression, much Altered and Corrected

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On a Furious Sorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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On a Furious Sorrow.

Outragious Sorrow on a Grave was set,
Digging the Earth, as if she through would get;
Her Hair unty'd, loose on her Shoulders hung,
And every Hair with Tears, like Beads, was strung,
Which Tears, when they did fall with their own weight,
Then new born Tears suppli'd their places strait;
She held a Dagger, seem'd with Courage bold,
Grief bid her strike, but Fear did bid her hold;
Impatience rais'd her Voice, she Shriek'd out Shril,
VVhich Sounded like a Trumpet on a Hill;

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Her Face was Flickt, like Marble streak'd with Red,
Caus'd by Grief's Vapours, flying to her Head;
Her Bosom bare, her Garments loose and wide,
And in this Posture lay by Death's Cold Side:
By chance a Man, who had a fluent Tongue,
Came Walking by, seeing her Lye along,
Pittied her sad Condition, and her Grief,
And strain'd by Rhetorick's help to give Relief;
VVhy do you Mourn, said he, and thus Complain,
Since Grief will neither Death, nor th'Gods restrain?
VVhen they at first all Creatures did Create,
They did them all to Death Predestinate;
Your Sorrow cannot alter their Decree,
Nor call back Life by your Impatiency;
Nor can the Dead from Love receive a heat,
Nor hear the Sound of Lamentations great:
For Death is Stupid, being Numb and Cold,
No Ears to hear, nor Eyes hath to behold:
Then Mourn no more, since you no help can give,
Take Pleasure in your Beauty whilst you Live;
For in the Fairest, Nature pleasure takes,
But if you Dye, then Death his Triumph makes.
At last his Words, like Keys, unlock'd her Ears,
And then she strait considers what she hears;
Pardon you Gods, (said she) my Murmu'ring crime,
My Grief shall ne're dispute your will Divine,
But in sweet Life will I take most Delight,
And so went Home with that Fond Carpet Knight.