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Pleasant dialogues and dramma's

selected out of Lucian, Erasmus, Textor, Ovid, &c. ... By Tho. Heywood

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A Funerall Elegie upon the death of Mistris Mary Littleboyes, Daughter to Master George Littleboyes of Ashburnham in Sussex, Esquire.
  
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A Funerall Elegie upon the death of Mistris Mary Littleboyes, Daughter to Master George Littleboyes of Ashburnham in Sussex, Esquire.

She was a virgin tall, as towards Heaven growing,
Who had she by Emergent Venus stood,
(Her dewy locks about her shoulders flowing,
And Cupid viewde them both at once) He woo'd
(Not able to distinguish one from th' other)
Have leapt into her lap, there toyde and plaid,
And (though a maide) mistooke her for his mother.
So faire she was; But thus all beauties fade.
All the choice vertues, morall and divine,
That ever grac't the sex, compris'd in one,

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Did in her faire brest mutually combine,
And where shall they find harbour now shee's gone?
Whom heaven did love, who merited mans praise,
Modest, wise, pious, charitable, chaste,
Whose vertues did in number passe her dayes,
Now (woe the while) in darknesse sleepes her last.
Well borne, well bred, brought up with cost and care,
Of singular parts; the sole admir'd 'mongst many,
In all her gracefull carriage, choise and rare.
But what of these? we see death spares not any.
Besides all other rich decorements she
So sweetly sung, her voice did rapture breed,
No spring-tide bird to her compar'd might be,
Who Orpheus did, and Thamiras exceed.
And what's of rare remarke; even all that day,
(The saddest to her friends that ever came)
When she (sweet soule) upon her death-bed lay,
She to choise musicall notes her voice did frame.
Her Funerall Dirge the dying Swan so sings,
Then Angels waited to make up the Quire,
And beare her soule on their celestiall wings,
Vnto that place shee living did desire.
Were all the pens of Poets joyn'd in one,
Dipt in like Inke, and sworne, to write her true;
Let them spend all their spirits on her alone,
Yet can they not ascribe to her her due.
Apollo write thy selfe, for this doth aske
No humane skill, to give her merited praise.
Thy Daphne dead, now take in hand this taske,
Do't as it ought, and ever weare thy bayes.