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To Mr. T. W.|
At once frō hence my lines & I depart [f. 29]
I to my soft still walks, words blotted: they to my hart
I to the Nource, they to the Child of art.
Yet as a firme house, though the Carpenter
Perish, doth stand: As an Ambassador
Lyes safe how ere his king be in danger
So though I languish prest wt Melancholy
My verse ye strict Map of my misery
line blotted: Shall live to see yt for whose want I dy.
Therfore I envy them and do repent
That frō vnhappy me, things happy are sent.
Yet as a picture or bare Sacrament
Accept these Lines, and if in them ther bee
line blotted: Meritt of Love, bestow yt Love on mee.
To Mr R: W.|
Zealously my Muse doth salute all thee.
Enquiring of that mistique trinitee
Whereof thou'and all to whom heauens do infuse
Like fyer, are made; thy body, mind, & Muse.
Dost thou recouer sicknes, or preuent?
Or is thy Mind trauaild wt discontent?
Or art thou parted frō the world & mee
In a good skorn of the worlds vanitee?
Or is thy devout Muse retyrd to sing
Vpon her tender Elegiaque string?
Or Minds part not, ioyne then thy Muse wt myne
for myne is barren thus deuorc'd frō thyne.