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Oft spake of death, and with a smiling chear, He did exult his end was drawing near, Now fully ripe, as shock of wheat that's grown, Death as a Sickle hath him timely mown, And in celestial Barn hath hous'd him high, Where storms, nor showrs, nor ought can damnifie. His Generation serv'd, his labours cease; And to his Fathers gathered is in peace.
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