Robert Gomersall Poems

I dare not say that Death in heav'n hath powre,
Or that we have a second fatall howre:
'Tis impious to beleeve that soules doe range,
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Deane, (then which no other name
Is of better, of more Fame)
Sleepe in quiet: if there be
Tongues of that Malignity,
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Now that you dare receive a messenger,
Now that the tyr'd-out plague begins to weare
It selfe away, not people: when the street
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Still to be silent, or to write in Prose
Were a like sloath, such as I leave to those,
Who either want the grace of wit, or have
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Nature, will it ever be
That we must complaine or thee?
Shall then all our search ne'r finde
Age at least to worth assign'd?
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Strike againe; ô no, no more
I implore,
Such another touch would be
My destiny.
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Doe they walke London still, and can we meet
With any now but mourners in the street?
Such a stupidity exceeds beleefe,
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