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192
Tixall Poetry.
Alas! 'tis now too late,
Philander to restore.
Why should the heavenly powers perswade
Poore mortals to believe,
  That they guard us here,
  Are rewarders there,
And all our joys deceive.

A poniard then she tooke,
  And held it in her hand,
And with with a dying looke,
  Said, thus I fate command.
Philander, O my love 1 I come
  To meet thy shade below,
   I come, she cried,
   With a wound soe wide,
  I need no second blow.

In purple waves her blood,
  Ran streaming downe the floor,
Unmov'd she stood, to see her blood,
  And blest her dying houre.
Philander, O Philander, still
  The bleeding Phillis cried;