Epitaph upon My Dear Brother, Francis Beaumont, An
On Death, thy murd'rer, this revenge I take:
I slight his terror, and just question make
Which of us two the best precedence have,
Mine to this wretched world, thine to the grave.
Thou shouldst have followed me; but death, to blame,
Miscounted years and measured age by fame:
So dearly hast thou bought thy precious lines;
Their praise grew swiftly: so thy life declines.
Thy Muse, the hearer's queen, the reader's love,
All ears, all hearts but Death's could please and move.
I slight his terror, and just question make
Which of us two the best precedence have,
Mine to this wretched world, thine to the grave.
Thou shouldst have followed me; but death, to blame,
Miscounted years and measured age by fame:
So dearly hast thou bought thy precious lines;
Their praise grew swiftly: so thy life declines.
Thy Muse, the hearer's queen, the reader's love,
All ears, all hearts but Death's could please and move.
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