Let everlasting Silence Tye thy Tongue;
The pent-up Woe now struggles to o'er-leap
Murder's Discretion, and with fearfull Speech
To free the Heart by telling Deeds of Death:
[Death, Thought's] repose, whom the abhor'd of Man,
The base assassin, gives, and after longs
With Lover's Ardour to embrace, be mine,
And I will yield all Hope of After-Life,
450
All Saints have promis'd, and all poets sung—