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 Take horse, and come, or be so kind To send your mind, Though but in numbers few, And I shall think I have the heart, Or part Of Clipseby Crew. Securely, free from care. Thyrse, a Bacchic staff. Instant, oncoming. Numbers, verses.

Nor is my number full till I inscribe Thee, sprightly Soame, one of my righteous tribe; A tribe of one lip, leaven, and of one Civil behaviour, and religion; A stock of saints, where ev'ry one doth wear A stole of white, and canonised here; Among which holies be thou ever known, Brave kinsman, mark'd out with the whiter stone Which seals thy glory, since I do prefer Thee here in my eternal calender.

Go I must; when I am gone, Write but this upon my stone: Chaste I lived, without a wife, That's the story of my life. Strewings need none, every flower Is in this word, bachelour.