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Hence comes it yt these rimes wch never had [f. 32]
Mother, want matter; and they only haue
A litle forme the wch ther father gaue;
They are prophane, imperfect, Oh too bad
To be counted Children of Poetree
Except confirmd & bishopped by thee.
To M. I. L.|
Blest are your North parts, for all this long time
My Sun'is wt you: cold & darke is or clime.
Heauens Sun wch stayd so long frō vs this yeare
Stayed in your North (I thinke) for she was there.
And hether by kind Nature drawne frō thence
Here rages, burnes, & threatens pestilence.
Yet I as long as she frō hence doth stay
Thinke this no South, no Som̄er, nor no day.
wt thee my kind & vnkind hart is run
There Sacrifice it to that bewteous Sun.
And since thou art in Paradise & needst craue
No ioyes addition, helpe thy frind to saue.
So may thy pastures wth ther flowry feasts
As sodainly as lard fatt thy leane beasts.
So may thy woods oft polld, yet ever weare
A greene and when thou wilt a golden haire.
So may all thy Sheepe bring forth twins and so
In chace & race may thy horse all out go.
So may thy love & courage nere be cold:
Thy Sonne nere Ward; thy fair Wife nere seeme old.
But may'st thou wish great things & them attaine,
As thou telst her & none but her my paine.