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Through Erymanth your loss deplore,
A better soil shall give ye thanks.
Such a rural queen
In this monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately
drowned in his passage from Chester, on the Irish seas, 1637; and by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height.
Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Begin then, Sisters of the Sacred Well !
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared
Conor, Oye i res, ar 'O E port V 1yrilgan, wil ili never se! I come to luca your riebalcrude, And, with forced in The Srutter you leaves before i melloy year. Pitter consiraint, ad sal ocasione dear, (muels nie to jisturb your season iu: For Lycila ischi,!-- iled.cre nis pame,.. You', IV. , u uh not ieft li peer: Who with sulfur Lycidas ? he knew A welf to say, lui Build the lofty rhyme. He m. st 100 ton in his walery vier t'i vent, ar ixello to the purchin, wind, !: Ni h- Arabelodious teur. ' " '
Sacred Bul! "Lil .
Os Joie de tn spring
at vain, and cause,
ads si.e passes turn,
. 12" je there he high lawns appeareri
ils u the morn,
i ter sultry horn,