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         Tutchin, Robert.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A95392 of text R212072 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Thomason 669.f.15[72]). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
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         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         A95392
         Wing T3386
         Thomason 669.f.15[72]
         ESTC R212072
         99870724
         99870724
         163145
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
            . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
          
        
      
       
         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A95392)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 163145)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 246:669f15[72])
      
       
         
           
             An elogy upon the much lamented death of Mr Luke Fawne, junior, who dyed the sixth of January, 1650. being ten years, six moneths, and four days old.
             Tutchin, Robert.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.)
           
             s.n.,
             [London :
             1651]
          
           
             Verse - "I'm big with Grief, That I can onely vent".
             Signed at end: Robertus Tutchein [i.e. Robert Tutchin].
             Imprint place from Wing.
             Reproduction of the original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Fawne, Luke, 1640-1651 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English.
        
      
    
       A95392  R212072  (Thomason 669.f.15[72]).  civilwar no An elogy upon the much lamented death of Mr Luke Fawne, junior, who dyed the sixth of January, 1650. being ten years, six moneths, and four Tutchin, Robert 1651    428 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 A This text  has no known defects that were recorded as gap elements at the time of transcription.  
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           AN
           ELOGY
           UPON
           THE
           Much
           lamented
           Death
           of
           Mr
           Luke
           Fawne
           ,
           junior
           ,
           who
           dyed
           the
           sixth
           of
           January
           ,
           1650.
           being
           Ten
           Years
           ,
           six
           Moneths
           ,
           and
           four
           days
           old
           .
        
         
           
             I
             'M
             big
             with
             Grief
             ,
             That
             I
             can
             onely
             vent
          
           
             My
             Passion
             in
             a
             sad
             Astonishment
             :
          
           
             My
             Sorrows
             are
             turn'd
             rude
             ,
             and
             do
             dispence
          
           
             A
             Fury
             greater
             ,
             then
             thy
             Innocence
             .
          
           
             Could
             there
             be
             so
             great
             Guilt
             on
             such
             young
             Years
             ,
          
           
             That
             justly
             could
             deserve
             these
             pious
             Tears
             ?
          
           
             Did
             the
             too
             partial
             Heavens
             but
             lend
             Thy
             Sight
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             to
             engage
             us
             in
             Eternal
             Night
             ?
          
           
             Did
             they
             Thy
             Life
             on
             us
             at
             first
             bestow
             ,
          
           
             Onely
             to
             make
             thee
             but
             a
             Ten
             Years
             Show
             ?
          
           
             But
             I
             have
             done
             ;
             Thou
             wert
             too
             good
             to
             be
          
           
             Continued
             in
             a
             Land
             of
             Miserie
             .
          
           
             We
             grieve
             
               Our
            
             Loss
             ,
             not
             
               Thine
               ;
            
             for
             we
             're
             left
             here
          
           
             To
             the
             sad
             Comfort
             of
             a
             
               sadder
               Tear
               .
            
          
           
             See
             how
             each
             Forehead
             's
             furrow'd
             to
             a
             Frown
             ,
          
           
             And
             every
             Eye
             its
             willing
             Tears
             drops
             down
             ;
          
           
             Mourning
             Thy
             Loss
             ,
             as
             if
             the
             World
             and
             all
          
           
             Its
             Creatures
             suffer'd
             in
             Thy
             
               untimely
               Fall
               .
            
          
           
             Thy
             Loss
             is
             fatal
             to
             the
             World
             ;
             in
             Thee
          
           
             
               Nature
            
             has
             lost
             her
             
               highest
               braverie
               .
            
          
           
             Thy
             Parts
             in
             so
             young
             Years
             did
             strongly
             prove
          
           
             Thou
             wert
             her
             onely
             Darling
             ,
             and
             her
             Love
             .
          
           
             How
             did
             Thy
             
               Sweetness
            
             extasie
             our
             Sense
          
           
             Into
             a
             wonder
             of
             Thy
             
               Excellence
               !
            
          
           
             Thy
             
               Vertues
            
             were
             too
             great
             for
             to
             have
             grown
          
           
             In
             any
             
               clay
            
             besides
             what
             was
             Thine
             
               own
               .
            
          
           
             Thou
             wert
             the
             purest
             
               Dust
               ,
            
             that
             e're
             was
             made
          
           
             T'
             enclose
             so
             bright
             a
             
               Soul
            
             within
             a
             
               Shade
               .
            
          
           
             —
             But
             Oh!
             it
             's
             gone
          
           
             T'
             its
             last
             and
             greatest
             Dissolution
             .
          
           
             And
             our
             full
             Tears
             ,
             at
             best
             ,
             will
             prove
             to
             be
          
           
             But
             faint
             Drops
             of
             a
             Pious
             Extasie
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Look
            
             back
             to
             th'
             
               Spring
               ,
            
             and
             if
             you
             e're
             have
             seen
          
           
             
               Vntimely
            
             winds
             blast
             Trees
             scarce
             fully
             green
             ,
          
           
             
               Know
            
             that
             our
             Loss
             is
             such
             ,
             since
             He
             hath
             shown
             ,
          
           
             
               E're
            
             a
             ripe
             
               Spring
               ,
            
             such
             blossoms
             of
             his
             
               own
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
               Fate
            
             sure
             past
             o're
             his
             years
             ,
             and
             view'd
             his
             parts
          
           
             
               Arraign'd
            
             to
             th'
             Bar
             ,
             not
             for
             his
             
               age
               ,
            
             but
             
               arts
               .
            
          
           
             
               Whoever
            
             saw
             a
             
               loaded
            
             ear
             of
             Corn
          
           
             
               Not
            
             Earth-wards
             tend
             ?
             the
             empty
             upwards
             born
             :
          
           
             
               E're
            
             life
             they
             dye
             ;
             e're
             death
             thou
             life
             didst
             scorn
             .
          
        
         
           Piaetatis
           Ergò
           ,
           sic
           cecinit
           ,
           
             Robertus
             Tutchein
             .
          
        
      
    
    

