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Than that, we gin; are ever burged beforingen,
Y e luck-lesse rymes, whom not unkindly spighte Begot long since of truth and holy rage, Lye here in wombe of silence and still night, Untill the broyles of next unquiet age:
That, which is others' grave, shal be your wombe;
And that, which beares you, your eternall toombe. Cease, ere ye gin; and, ere ye live, be dead; And dye and live, ere ever ye be borne : And be not bore, ere ye be buryed; Then after live, sith you have dy'd beforne',
When I am dead and rotten in the dust,
Then gin to live, and leave when others lust.
Will hardly yelde t' awayt my mourning hearse,
But for my dead corps change my living verse.
Oh! if my soule could see their post-hume spight,
Should it not joy and triumph in the sight?
It dy'de before : now let it live agane ;