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William Shakespeare, 1564-1616 [1640], Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent (Printed... by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Iohn Benson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11600]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
M. William Shakspeare. [secondary verse]
I dare not doe thy Memory that wrong,
Vnto our larger griefes to give a tongue; Ile onely sigh in earnest, and let fall My solemne teares at thy great Funerall; For every eye that raines a showre for thee, Laments thy losse in a sad Elegie. Nor is it fit each humble Muse should have, Thy worth his subject, now th'art laid in grave; No its a flight beyond the pitch of those, Whose worthles Pamphlets are not sence in Prose. Let learned Iohnson sing a Dirge for thee, And fill our Orbe with mournefull harmony; But we neede no Remembrancer, thy Fame Shall still accompany thy honoured Name, To all posterity; and make us be, Sensible of what we lost in losing thee: Being the Ages wonder whose smooth Rhimes, Did more reforme than lash the looser Times. Nature her selfe did her owne selfe admire, As oft as thou wert pleased to attire Her in her native lusture, and confesse, Thy dressing was her chiefest comlinesse. How can we then forget thee, when the age Her chiefest Tutor, and the widdowed Stage
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