On Himselfe
The worke is done: young men, and maidens set
Upon my curles the Mirtle Coronet,
Washt with sweet ointments; Thus at last I come
To suffer in the Muses Martyrdome:
But with this comfort, if my blood be shed,
The Muses will weare blackes, when I am dead.
Upon my curles the Mirtle Coronet,
Washt with sweet ointments; Thus at last I come
To suffer in the Muses Martyrdome:
But with this comfort, if my blood be shed,
The Muses will weare blackes, when I am dead.
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