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Rh

If men can say that beauty dies, Marbles will swear that here it lies. If, reader, then thou canst forbear In public loss to shed a tear, The dew of grief upon this stone Will tell thee pity thou hast none.

One of the five straight branches of my hand Is lop'd already, and the rest but stand Expecting when to fall, which soon will be; First dies the leaf, the bough next, next the tree.

Angry if Irene be But a minute's life with me: Such a fire I espy Walking in and out her eye, As at once I freeze and fry.

Upon her cheeks she wept, and from those showers Sprang up a sweet nativity of flowers.