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Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together ;
To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded ;
That it cry'd, how true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain.
Whereupon it made this threne,
To the phenix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.

THRENOS.

Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here inclos 'd in cinders lie.

Death is now the phenix' nest;
And the turtle's loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,
Leaving no posterity :
'Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be ;
Beauty brag, but 'tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair ;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

WM. SHAKE-SPEARE.

THE END.

GILBERT & RiviNGTON, Printers, St. Johu's Square, London,

27

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