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Here lies Jonson with the rest
Reader, would’st thou more have known?Ask his story, not this stone.That will speak what this can’t tellOf his glory. So farewell.
Down with the rosemary and bays,
Instead of holly, now up-raiseThe greener box, for show.The holly hitherto did sway;Let box now domineer,Until the dancing Easter-day,Or Easter’s eve appear.Then youthful box, which now hath graceYour houses to renew,Grown old, surrender must his placeUnto the crisped yew.When yew is out, then birch comes in,And many flowers beside,Both of a fresh and fragrant kin,To…
Play, Phoebus, on thy lute,
By listening to thy lyre,That sets all ears on fire.Hark, hark! the God does play!And as he leads the wayThrough heaven, the very spheres,As men, turn all to ears!
O earth! earth! earth! hear thou my voice, and be
Banish’d from thee I live;–ne’er to return,Unless thou giv’st my small remains an urn.