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YE luck-lesse rymes, whom not unkindly spighte
That, which is others' grave, shal be your wombe;
Then after live, sith you have dy'd beforne'.
Will hardly yelde t' awayt my mourning hearse,
To feele the force of hatred or of love?
Oh! if my soule could see their post-hume spight, Should it not joy and triumph in the sight? Whatever eye shalt finde this hatefull scrole After the date of my deare exequies, Ah! pitty thou my playning orphane's dole, That faine would see the sunne before it dyes. It dy'de before: now let it live agane : Then let it dye, and bide some famus bane.
Satis est potuisse videri.