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Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.

Ah, yet, e'er I descend to th' grave, May I a small House and a large Garden have. And a few Friends, and many Books both true, Both wise, and both delightful too. And since Love ne'er will from me flee, A mistress moderately fair, And good as Guardian angels are, Only belov'd and loving me.

Hence ye profane; I hate ye all; Both the great vulgar, and the small.

Words that weep, and tears that speak.