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Now, boast thee, death! in thy possession lies
Of eyes again so royal!
Death lies on her, like an untimely frost
Have I not hideous death within my view,
Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax
Since I must lose the use of all deceit ?
Why should I then be false; since it is true,
Nothing in his life
Became him like the leaving it: he died
O, my love! my wife!
Death that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
* In allusion to the images made by the witches.
I have bewept a worthy husband's death,
All things, that we ordained festival,
O'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep
O, now doth death line his dead chaps with steel;
His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him;
Than man could give him, he died, fearing God.
Full of repentance,
Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,
He gave his honours to the world again,
His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.
Grief softens the mind,
And makes it fearful and degenerate.
The night of sorrow now is turn'd to day:
He cheers the morn, and all the world relieveth :
The holy water from her heavenly eyes,
And clamour moisten'd: then away she started
In the glasses of thine eyes
I see thy grieved heart.
Men judge by the complexion of the sky
Lo! here the hopeless merchant of this loss,
With head declined, and voice damm'd up with woe, With sad set eyes and wretched arms across,
From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow
The grief away, that stops his answer so;
What he breathes out, his breath drinks up again.
As through an arch the violent roaring tide
My particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature,
That it engluts and swallows other sorrows,
And it is still itself.
When my heart,
As wedged with a sigh, would rive* in twain;
But sorrow that is couch'd in seeming gladness,
Sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell,
Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes:
"Tis with my mind
As with the tide, swell'd up unto its height,
That makes a still-stand, running neither way.
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast. 17-ii. 1.
Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and grained spots,
My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr'd;
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring;
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My heart is great; but it must break with silence,
There's nothing in this world, can make me joy :
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud,
O, you kind gods,
Cure this great breach in his abused nature!
As the wretch, whose fever-weaken'd joints,
Out of his keeper's arms; even so my limbs, Weaken'd with grief, being now enraged with grief, Are thrice themselves.§
Our strength is all gone into heaviness,
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
† Ps. xc. 9.
Bend, yield to pressure.
§ Anger and terror have been known to remove a fit of the gout; to give activity to the bed-ridden; and to produce instantaneous and most extraordinary energies.