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132
Tixall Poetry.

XVIII.

A Dirge.


Ile goe to my love, where hee lies in the deepe,
And in my imbraces my deerest shall sleepe:
When we wake, the kind dolphins together shall throng,
And in chariots of shels shall draw us along.

The orient pearle, which the ocean bestowes,
With corral! wele mix, and a crown soe compose;
The sea nimphs shall sigh, and envy our blisse,
We will teach them to laugh, and there cockles to kisse.

For my love sleeps now in a watry grave,
He hath nothing to shew for his tombe but a wave:
He kisse his cold lips, not the corrall more red,
That growes where he lies in his watry bed.

Ah! ah! my loves dead, there was not a bell,
  But a tritons shell,
  To ring, to ring out his knell.