Francis Beaumont quotes

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Bid her paint till day of doom,
To this favour she must come.
Know from this the world's a snare,
How that greatness is but care,
Here the bones of birth have cried,
'Though Gods they were, as men they died'.
this scythe that mows down kings
Exempts no meaner mortal things.
Mortality, behold, and fear,
What a change of flesh is here!
Where from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach: 'In greatness is no trust'.
Away delights, go seek some other dwelling,
For I must die:
For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry,
Alas, for pity stay,
Lay a garland on my hearse,
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say I died true.
Hold back thy hours, dark Night, till we have done;
The Day will come too soon.
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