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Poem by John Webster
Hark, now everything is still; The screech-owl and the whistler shrill Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud; Much you had of land and rent, Your length in clay's now competent. A long war disturbed your mind; Here your perfect peace is signed. Of what is't fools make such vain keeping? Sin their conception, their birth weeping, Their life a general mist of error, Their death a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, Don clean linen, bathe your feet, And (the foul fiend more to check) A crucifix let bless your neck; 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day, End your groan and come away.
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