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 THIS little vault, this narrow room, 
Of Love and Beauty is the tomb; 
The dawning beam, that 'gan to clear 
Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here, 
For ever set to us: by Death 
Sent to enflame the World Beneath.
'Twas but a bud, yet did contain More sweetness than shall spring again; A budding Star, that might have grown Into a Sun when it had blown.
This hopeful Beauty did create New life in Love's declining state; But now his empire ends, and we From fire and wounding darts are free; His brand, his bow, let no man fear: The flames, the arrows, all lie here.

by Thomas Carew
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