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Her Epitaph

 Happy Grave, thou dost enshrine
That which makes thee a rich mine:
Remember yet, 'tis but a loane;
And wee must have it back, Her owne,
The very same; Marke mee, the same:
Thou canst not cheat us with a lame
Deformed Carcase; Shee was fayre,
Fresh as Morning, sweete as Ayre:
Purer than other flesh as farre
As other Soules than Bodies are:
And that thou mayst the better see
To finde her out: two stars there bee
Eclipsed now; uncloude but those
And they will poynt thee to the Rose
That dyde each cheeke, now pale and wan,
But will bee when shee wakes againe
Fresher than ever: And howere
Her long sleepe may alter Her
Her Soule will know her Body streight,
Twas made so fitt for't.
Noe deceite Can suite another to it: none Cloath it so neatly as its owne.

by William Strode
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