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 By dear Saint Iphis, and the rest Of all those other saints now blest, Me, me, forsaken, here admit Among your myrtles to be writ: That my poor name may have the glory To live remembered in your story. Phyllis, the Thracian princess who hanged herself for love of Demophoon.

Iphis, a Cyprian youth who hanged himself for love of Anaxaretes.

Here a solemn fast we keep, While all beauty lies asleep Hush'd be all things—no noise here— But the toning of a tear: Or a sigh of such as bring Cowslips for her covering.

Of all those three brave brothers fall'n i' th' war (Not without glory), noble sir, you are, Despite of all concussions, left the stem To shoot forth generations like to them. Which may be done, if, sir, you can beget Men in their substance, not in counterfeit, Such essences as those three brothers; known Eternal by their own production. Of whom, from fame's white trumpet, this I'll tell,