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Carolina

or, Loyal Poems. By Tho. Shipman

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The Old MOURNER.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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119

The Old MOURNER.

Upon an Old Mourning Suit.

1667.
To Sir J. D.
What am I like now? do not spare;
A Vicar preach'd thred-bare;
Or younger Brother left to th' Heir.
Worth waits not alwayes upon store;
Despise not then the poor;
Mock not a Cripple for his Sore.
Silk cannot make each Wearer fine;
Nor does Gold only shine:
Tissue wears out, unless you line.
I flourish't once (I speak aloud)
As you, be ne'r so proud:
Phœbus himself may meet a Cloud.
Will Mourning, think you, fresh appear
After 'tis worn a year?
You may as well expect a tear.
Yet I could mourn six twelve months more,
Upon a Lawful Score;
And I have Friends, I hope, in store.
My Black-Coat speckt you call white Ink;
Or tears o'th' Tankard think;
Why Grief is thirsty, and must drink.
Grief's a Good-fellow, as appears;
For he will tipple tears;
Your thirsty Mourner merits Jeers,

120

True Grief will make one lean appear;
Conceit each thrid that's bare
A Rib, by Grief consum'd so near.
Each mournful Hole that you espy
Imagine then an Eye
Wept out, and that's more than wept dry.
My peeping Shirt, through every Chink,
Perswades me much to think
I'm like this Paper, blurr'd with Ink.