Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
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Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
 
XVI. Crossed Hands and Closed Eyes
An Epitaph
By Andrew Marvell (1621–1678)
 
ENOUGH: and leave the rest to Fame.
’Tis to commend her, but to name.
Courtship which, living, she declin’d,
When dead, to offer were unkind,
Where never any could speak ill,        5
Who would officious praises spill?
Nor can the truest wit, or friend,
Without detracting, her commend.
 
To say, she lived a virgin chaste
In this age loose and all unlaced;        10
Nor was, when vice is so allow’d,
Of virtue or asham’d or proud;
That her soul was on Heaven so bent,
No minute but it came and went;
That, ready her last debt to pay,        15
She summ’d her life up every day;
Modest as morn, as mid-day bright,
Gentle as evening, cool as night:
’Tis true: but all too weakly said;
’Twere more significant, she ’s dead.        20
 
 
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