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Thomas Carew (Томас Кэрью (Кэри))


Epitaph for Maria Wentworth


And here the precious dust is laid;
Whose purely-temper'd clay was made
So fine that it the guest betray'd.

Else the soul grew so fast within,
It broke the outward shell of sin,
And so was hatch'd a cherubin.

In height, it soar'd to God above;
In depth, it did to knowledge move,
And spread in breadth to general love.

Before, a pious duty shin'd
To parents, courtesy behind;
On either side an equal mind.

Good to the poor, to kindred dear,
To servants kind, to friendship clear,
To nothing but herself severe.

So, though a virgin, yet a bride
To ev'ry grace, she justified
A chaste polygamy, and died.

Learn from hence, reader, what small trust
We owe this world, where virtue must,
Frail as our flesh, crumble to dust. 



Thomas Carew's other poems:
  1. To Ben Jonson
  2. Celia Beeding, To The Surgeon
  3. I Do Not Love Thee For That Fair
  4. To My Inconstant Mistress
  5. Know, Celia, Since Thou Art So Proud


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