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         Strafford, Thomas Wentworth, Earl of, 1593-1641.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription B03310 of text6 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing E83). 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
         B03310
         Wing E83
         Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.2[7]
         Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.4[211]
         99885039
         ocm99885039
         182880
         
           
            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. B03310)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 182880)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books; Tract supplement ; A1:1[7]; A4:2[212])
      
       
         
           
             The Earle of Strafford his ellegiack poem, as it was pen'd by his owne hand a little before his death.
             Strafford, Thomas Wentworth, Earl of, 1593-1641.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.).
           
             s.n.],
             [London :
             Printed in the yeare, 1641.
          
           
             Place of publication suggested by Wing.
             Verse: "State give me leave, and vexe my thoughts no more ..."
             Reproduction of original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Strafford, Thomas Wentworth, -- Earl of, 1593-1641. -- Poetry.
           Political poetry, English -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
       B03310 6  (Wing E83).  civilwar no The Earle of Strafford his ellegiack poem, as it was pen'd by his owne hand a little before his death. Strafford, Thomas Wentworth, Earl of 1641    509 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.  
        2008-05 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
        2008-08 SPi Global
        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
        2008-10 Mona Logarbo
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        2008-10 Mona Logarbo
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        2009-02 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
       
         
           THE
           EARLE
           OF
           STRAFFORD
           HIS
           ELLEGIACK
           POEM
           ,
           AS
           IT
           Was
           pen'd
           by
           his
           owne
           hand
           a
           little
           before
           his
           Death
           .
        
         
           
             STate
             give
             me
             leave
             ,
             and
             vexe
             my
             thoughts
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             I
             have
             too
             much
             within
             me
             to
             deplore
          
           
             My selfe
             ,
             and
             it
             ,
             who
             both
             oppress'd
             doe
             lye
          
           
             Subjected
             to
             a
             growing
             Anarchy
             .
          
        
         
           
             I
             have
             plough'd
             through
             my
             soule
             ,
             &
             articled
          
           
             Against
             my selfe
             within
             me
             ,
             I
             have
             read
          
           
             All
             my
             life
             over
             ,
             to
             find
             out
             what
             sin
          
           
             Mov'd
             
               Englands
               ,
               Irelands
               ,
            
             &
             what
             
               Scotlands
            
             spleen
             ,
          
           
             And
             dare
             convince
             their
             blinded
             rage
             who
             can
          
           
             Find
             in
             me
             errors
             more
             then
             speake
             me
             Man
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             dangerous
             to
             be
             great
             ,
             Treason
             doth
             lye
          
           
             To
             be
             too
             gracious
             in
             a
             Princes
             eye
             :
          
           
             Use
             your
             rage
             sharpest
             wit
             ,
             for
             all
             your
             Art
          
           
             Though
             you
             my
             head
             ,
             my
             King
             shall
             have
             my
             hart
             .
          
        
         
           
             Be
             wise
             ,
             
               Vice-gerents
               ,
            
             whose
             succeeding
             fate
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             reare
             you
             up
             unto
             the
             height
             of
             State
             ,
          
           
             The
             ladder
             shakes
             you
             climbe
             on
             ,
             every
             Round
          
           
             Is
             pav'd
             with
             icy
             fate
             ,
             smiles
             on
             the
             ground
          
           
             From
             whence
             you
             rise
             ,
             and
             ,
             unadvis'd
             ,
             you
             shall
          
           
             Find
             ,
             if
             not
             sudden
             ,
             yet
             a
             certaine
             fall
             .
          
        
         
           
             My
             sinne
             was
             too
             much
             loyalty
             ,
             and
             when
          
           
             That
             times
             to
             come
             ,
             as
             sure
             there
             will
             be
             Men
             ,
          
           
             (
             Although
             this
             scanted
             Age
             vents
             none
             ,
             but
             those
          
           
             Who
             of
             old
             Titles
             and
             new
             fashion'd
             cloaths
          
           
             Can
             boast
             ,
             whose
             honest
             judgments
             doe
             agree
          
           
             To
             love
             the
             King
             and
             feare
             his
             subsidie
             .
             )
          
           
             They
             ,
             in
             disdaine
             of
             their
             fore-fathers
             hate
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             speake
             my
             vertues
             ,
             and
             lament
             my
             Fate
             .
          
        
         
           
             You
             ,
             you
             ,
             then
             (
             happier
             Nephewes
             )
             what
             I
             tell
          
           
             So
             late
             ,
             so
             true
             ,
             accept
             as
             Oracle
             ,
          
           
             Where
             ever
             Justice
             calls
             you
             ,
             for
             my
             sake
          
           
             Be
             all
             your
             Demonstrations
             faire
             ,
             nor
             make
          
           
             A
             bad
             distinction
             ,
             by
             mistaken
             zeale
          
           
             T'
             your
             Prince
             ,
             'twixt
             him
             ,
             and
             'twixt
             his
             Common-weale
             .
          
        
         
           
             Come
             neerer
             Death
             ,
             and
             let
             's
             imbrace
             !
             but
             you
          
           
             That
             with
             such
             care
             and
             jealousies
             pursue
          
           
             My
             spited
             Soule
             ,
             although
             my
             blood
             's
             no
             price
          
           
             To
             your
             wish'd
             peace
             ,
             too
             weake
             a
             Sacrifice
          
           
             To
             expiate
             three
             Kingdomes
             ;
             yet
             from
             me
          
           
             Take
             this
             my
             last
             and
             perfect'st
             Legacie
          
        
         
           
             For
             all
             the
             service
             I
             have
             done
             the
             State
             ,
          
           
             My
             early
             risings
             ,
             and
             my
             sleeping
             late
             ,
          
           
             For
             all
             those
             cares
             kept
             sad
             my
             charge
             ,
             my
             long
          
           
             Zeale
             to
             my
             Prince
             ,
             which
             you
             miscoster'd
             wrong
             ,
          
           
             For
             all
             my
             labours
             ,
             and
             in
             that
             pursuit
          
           
             My
             slaughtered
             honours
             ,
             and
             my
             life
             to
             boote
             ,
          
           
             Doe
             this
             ,
             and
             you
             shall
             by
             my
             counsaile
             prove
          
           
             Happy
             on
             earth
             as
             I
             in
             Heaven
             above
          
           
             And
             though
             (
             for
             this
             shall
             your
             most
             cōfort
             bring
             )
          
           
             You
             lov'd
             not
             me
             ,
             yet
             love
             my
             Lord
             your
             King
             .
          
        
         
           FJNJS
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
           Printed
           in
           the
           Yeare
           ,
           1641.
           
        
      
      
  

