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A golden fly one show'd to me, Clos'd in a box of ivory, Where both seem'd proud: the fly to have His burial in an ivory grave; The ivory took state to hold A corpse as bright as burnish'd gold. One fate had both, both equal grace; The buried, and the burying-place. Not Virgil's gnat, to whom the spring All flowers sent to's burying; Not Martial's bee, which in a bead Of amber quick was buried; Nor that fine worm that does inter Herself i' th' silken sepulchre; Nor my rare Phil,[K] that lately was With lilies tomb'd up in a glass; More honour had than this same fly, Dead, and closed up in ivory. Virgil's gnat, see 256. Martial's bee, see Note.

Julia, when thy Herrick dies, Close thou up thy poet's eyes: And his last breath, let it be Taken in by none but thee.