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In this surmize he made with speede
An iron cane, wherein he put

The thunder that in cloudes do breede;
The flame and bolt togither shut

With privie force burst out againe,

And so our Astrophill was slaine.

His word (was slaine!) straightway did move,
And natures inward life strings twitch;

The skie immediately above

Was dined with hideous clouds of pitch,

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The wrastling winds from out the ground 185
Fild all the aire with ratling sound.

The bending trees exprest a grone,

And sigh'd the sorrow of his fall;
The forrest beasts made ruthfull mone,
The birds did tune their mourning call,
And Philomell for Astrophill
Unto her notes annext a phill.

The Turtle dove with tunes of ruthe
Shewd feeling passion of his death;
Me thought she said, I tell thee truthe,
Was never he that drew in breath

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Unto his love more trustie found,

Than he for whom our griefs abound.

The Swan, that was in presence heere,

Began his funeral dirge to sing:

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Good things (quoth he) may scarce appeere,

But passe away with speedie wing.

This mortall life as death is tride,

And death gives life, and so he di'de.

The generall sorrow that was made,

Among the creatures of [each] kinde,
Fired the Phoenix where she laide,
Her ashes flying with the winde,

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So as I might with reason see,

That such a Phoenix nere should bee.

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Haply the cinders, driven about,

May breede an offspring neere that kinde,
But hardly a peere to that I doubt;

It cannot sinke into my minde,

That under branches ere can bee

Of worth and value as the tree.

The Egle markt with pearcing sight
The mournfull habite of the place,

And parted thence with mounting flight,

To signifie to love the case,

What sorrow nature doth sustaine
For Astrophill by envie slaine.

And, while I followed with mine eie

The flight the Egle upward tooke,

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All things did vanish by and by,

And disappeared from my looke:

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The trees, beasts, birds, and grove was gone;

So was the friend that made this mone.

This spectacle had firmly wrought

A deepe compassion in my spright;

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My molting hart issude, me thought,
In streames forth at mine eies aright:
And here my pen is forst to shrinke,
My teares discollor so mine inke.

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AN EPITAPH*

UPON THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT,

LORD GOVERNOR OF FLUSHING.

To

praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death,
And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, divine,
Is far beyond the powre of mortall line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.

Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learnings lore,

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And friendly care obscurde in secret brest,
And love that envie in thy life supprest,

Thy deere life done, and death, hath doubled more.

And I, that in thy time, and living state,
Did onely praise thy vertues in my thought,

As one that seeld1 the rising sun hath sought,

With words and teares now waile thy timelesse fate.

1 Seeld, seldom

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* "To the two following pieces I am unable to assign their authors; but no reader will imagine them the productions of Spenser."-TODD.

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Drawne was thy race aright from princely line;
Nor lesse than such, (by gifts that Nature gave,

The common mother that all creatures have,)

Doth vertue shew, and princely linage shine.

A king gave thee thy name; a kingly minde,
That God thee gave, who found it now too deere
For this base world, and hath resumde it neere,
To sit in skies, and sort with powres divine.

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Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy youth;
The heavens made hast, and staid nor yeers, nor time;
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime,
Thy will, thy words; thy words the seales of truth.

Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee thence, 25
To treat from kings with those more great than kings;
Such hope men had to lay the highest things
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence!

Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee call,
Thy countries love, religion, and thy friends:
Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends,
And her defence, for whom we labor all.

There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age,
Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base fortunes might:
Thy rising day saw never wofull night,
But past with praise from off this worldly stage.

Back to the campe, by thee that day was brought,
First thine owne death, and after thy long fame;

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