Tixall Poetry.
103
To
Sir William and My Lady Persall,
Upon the Death of Theire and Our Deare Mall.
We are too much concern'd to dry your teares,
Nor can they lessen yours, to heare our cares.
But frendship will be busy, though we know
That repetition but augments our woe.
Lets tread a middle path then, pay our praires
For what wee had, for what we lost our teares.
How could wee hope in this worlds vertues dearth
Long to enioy that little heaven on earth?
Was not her mind drawne in her lovely face?
Did not her soule shine through the cristall case?
As a cleare sun, upon a cloudies day,
On some calme streame bestowes his brightest ray.
But death inform'd us that the goale was wonne
Before the race did seeme to us begunne.
It were a sin to wish her here againe;
But pardon if I say that all the paine
Nor can they lessen yours, to heare our cares.
But frendship will be busy, though we know
That repetition but augments our woe.
Lets tread a middle path then, pay our praires
For what wee had, for what we lost our teares.
How could wee hope in this worlds vertues dearth
Long to enioy that little heaven on earth?
Was not her mind drawne in her lovely face?
Did not her soule shine through the cristall case?
As a cleare sun, upon a cloudies day,
On some calme streame bestowes his brightest ray.
But death inform'd us that the goale was wonne
Before the race did seeme to us begunne.
It were a sin to wish her here againe;
But pardon if I say that all the paine
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